These Tides of Fortunes Must One Day Turn
by Wraithlike
Summary: Lost in a world of sworn oaths, polluted bloodlines and shoddy sword skills, Fabiola, a seamstress of Teirm is suddenly Eragon's best hope at survival. But when paths cross and prejudices emerge, is her life simply too much to preserve? MxOC.
1. Prologue: Field of Tears

**Notes below! Epilogue from POV of Vrael fighting Galbatorix for the last time. If you get lost, skip chapters. The story starts in the next chapter. This is just a little artsy beginning. See you in chapter one!  
**

_~Prologue~ _

_~Field of Tears~_

oOo

The sky shot through with grey pillars of smoke, mixing with the steadily falling rain, and Vrael, last of those who could hope to triumph over this insane youngling, could see the blue bay before him.

_Crash.__  
Crash.__  
Crash.  
Parry …_

He didn't know how much longer this could go on for. Hours, maybe, if he was canny. Moments, if he was not. He didn't care. Or rather, he cared too much. If he fell, who would stop the insanity? Would it fester on to kill everyone who opposed it?

_Parry …__  
Parry …  
Crash._

He hated looking into the face of the youth before him. It was crazed, and tortured, lit with a feral gleam the pleasure of killing gave him. The face of a man who was better off dead.

_Please … let me save you …_

He could see the other dragons and their foolish Riders swooping through the sky. The child's cursed Forsworn. Misled. Their dragons laid waste to the lands he had fought to protect, killing, burning and ripping as they had not done since the Great Dragon Wars …

_Crash.  
__Swipe.  
Parry …_

Vrael knew he had been foolish. No-one had told him so, but they didn't have to. They wouldn't. They respected him too fully, too wholly for a man who wasn't even whole himself. The pain threatened to buckle him to his knees again, as his mind probed the wound left from the death of his dragon, the partner of his soul in this world. The tear in his mind was still fresh and new, and Vrael longed to let the misery overwhelm him, but he didn't. It would only grant this child more mercy at his hand. No more mercy. It was mercy that had landed him there.

_Parry …  
Parry …  
Stumble.  
Swipe.  
Crash._

He had hesitated, seeing devastation in the boy's eyes beneath him.  
'_Stop now, Galbatorix!' _he had cried, and had been completely sincere.  
'_Enough have died. Relinquish this quest for vengeance. Serve your land in another way. Let the slaughter stop! Don't force me to kill you!'_  
His silver sword was firm in his grip, the tip grazing the boy's exposed throat. He swallowed convulsively, but was silent.  
The pain had receded to let him function, then. Peace had stolen quietly over him, briefly, almost as if his dragon had known his death was about to be atoned for.

Vrael had felt pity for the misguided child before him. He would always think of his as a child, the child he had seen trained and happy, the child who had bowed to him with reverence, the child he had seen broken and sobbing as he begged for another egg … He had orchestrated calamities, massacres, but the grief inside him was the same that Vrael now felt. How he himself longed to rip and tear the cruel world around him …

_Slash.  
Parry …  
Parry …  
Parry …_

But he couldn't. And this child should have realised that long ago. Retribution was deserved, justice would be served. He had swung his sword back, and braced himself to slice the head off the errant Rider before him, but mercy had stilled his hand for one moment before he could control himself. It had been all that was needed. The slash Galbatorix had delivered across his torso would kill him, even if he survived this battle. He could feel it, and he had no soul-mate to heal him now …

_Crash.  
Stumble.  
Parry …  
Parry …_

The black form of the twisted hatchling Galbatorix had hatched to try and replace his own dragon's void dived towards the sea, to kill something else, no doubt. Vrael wished harder than he ever had than he might feel his own dragon's presence. He missed the comfortable friendship that had always been theirs alone, and the powerful feeling that he was never truly alone. But he was glad that what was left of his dragon was far, far away, held safely by his wife for his son, and that it could come to no further harm. He was glad that his son would one day almost know his father's soul-mate. But he was sorry it was not with him in this, what would be his last hour. He could feel it …

_Stumble.__  
Parry …  
Stumble.  
Parry …  
Swipe._

It hurt. It hurt more than any other injury he had physically sustained, and coupled with the wound in his heart, it should have been crippling. But Vrael wouldn't be crippled. Never. He must fight on, for the young Riders of tomorrow, for the land that was his to defend. He had to fight for the new dawn …

_Stumble.  
Swipe._

So tired. Suddenly, Vrael felt old. Without his life-line to support him, he was little more than an injured old man, succumbing to the natural order of things. He could see the bay … if only he could keep it in sight … if only he could stay staring at the expanse of silvery-blue water forever, as he and his dragon had done so many times before. If only he could speak with him one more time before he left the earth … if only he could feel his wife's hand caress his own again … if only he could see his son's face when he realised his father's gift to him … if only he could stave off this demonic man for the good of the land, his people, and all he held dear …

_Stumble_.

Pain flared again as his young adversary took his own advantages. Vrael stumbled to his knees, in time to see the fiery hatred flash across the now-king's twisted face; in time to hear his laughter as he drew back his own sword; in time to feel the whisper of steel cutting through the air without an ounce of the pity he himself had shown before.

Vrael thought one last time of his life, his love, his land, his son, his dragon …

And the blade flashed scarlet in the grey sunlight.

Vrael was no more.

oOo

Hundreds of leagues away, in a simple forest home, Favriana smiled down at her young son playing on the floor with sticks, oblivious to the precious bundle wrapped up for him on the table. As carefully as if it were her first-born, Favriana lifted the carefully concealed package, and tucked it into the trunk full of her treasures, her hands brushing the garland she had worn to her first dance, her wedding sash, his scrolls and book, and tried to remain hopeful. She watched her fair child giggle to himself, and murmured a prayer of thanks.

Come what may, her child would remain her comfort and security.

A tear slid down her face.

xXx

_Years passed ..._

An Empire fell to ruin and rebellion.

_The Dragon Riders were lost._

Tales and legends spread;

but those who should remember  
wouldn't.

A blue egg sailed across time and space …

_A ruby egg stirred in anticipation in a castle …_

A green egg slept on …

And somewhere, in the dusty city of Teirm, the heiress of Vrael was running up wedding dresses and ballgowns in a dingy dress shop, humming tunelessly much to everyone's annoyance and generally fobbing her way through life.

A blue egg awoke …

Her life would pay the forfeit ...

xXx

**A/N: Revised version. This part isn't revised yet, but the next is, and beta read by DrownedHopes, whom I love. ;)  
Actual !plot! happens in the next chapter, so shoo! Go on ...  
**


	2. Chapter 1

_The lights go out and I can't be saved  
Tides that I try to swim against  
Have brought me down upon my knees  
Oh, I beg, I beg and plead …  
- Clocks – Coldplay_

~Chapter One~

~Beyond Futility~

It was turning out to be a rather bad day for Fabiola.

Partially, but not completely because she had just been stabbed with a fork in the back.

The day had started like any other; waking in that shabby damp little room, falling back asleep and being late for work (which was quite a feat, considering she lived _over_the shop), bowing, scraping, and generally ingratiating herself to the well-heeled patrons of the dress-shop in the hope of a better position, and maybe a life.

Which, at seventeen, was really very little to ask.

_A stiff smile painted onto her face, she turned to greet the next customer, a fussy__young woman, twittering on about a wedding dress or some other such frivolous matter. Fabiola felt__ancient, hearing her prattle with utter sincerity about her fears over the lace on the cuffs, and wondered, for at least the fifth time in the past half an hour, how much longer until lunchtime._

Oh, do shut up_, she yawned mentally. Feeling slightly guilty and__realizing that the bride had paused her chattering, Fabiola attempted to snap herself to attention. The young bride was likely just excited, and more than a bit nervous. Harmless, really._

_However, the stern mother hovering over her shoulder was another matter._

'_Well, why don't you just slip the dress on, there, miss, and we'll see what we can do about it,' Fabiola said, smiling winningly. The bride still seemed peevish, but her mother__softened._

'_Please excuse me just a moment,' Fabiola beamed at the duo, and curtsied elaborately. To anyone less ignorant, the sarcasm and overtly pious manner would have been obvious as disrespect, but this mother was happy to believe the serving girl was humbled by her presence. Stupid stuck up rich girls. Life on a silver platter, and all they needed to make it complete was the "lower classes" to bow and exalt. She had always hated their hypocrisy._

_Fabiola maintained the warm smile, as she backed out of the shop to the backroom, covered in swathes of material, looms, thread and haberdashery galore. She crossed without hesitation to the bench and sat down, resting her head on a pile of soft white fabric for a couple of blissful moments, before someone poked her in the shoulder and she had to drag herself back to the door, stumbling gracelessly. She paused at the door and pulled herself erect, pinning the determined smile back on her angular, milk-white face and walked back into the shop to face her doom._

'_So, what other type of lace might you require, mistress?'_

Fabiola leaned heavily on the counter of the dress-shop, in a rare moment of idleness, and sighed, melancholy invading her every thought. Her eyes seemed heavy as she blinked them, day-dreaming. A sharp smack across the back of the head had awakened her fairly quickly, with a squeak of pain, to leave her formidable superior glaring at her.

'I don't pay you to dilly-dally, girl,' she told Fabiola sharply, her deep voice imperious as always and pointed forcefully to the door into the backroom.

_Technically, you don't pay me at all. Technically, you pay the Varden for my service, and I get a few sovereigns a year from them for my keep. And that is, technically, the reason I'm so bloody thrice-damned poor._

Fabiola threw herself down at a bench, and rubbed her already tired eyes. The other women smiled down at her, through their chatter, and she found it in herself to grin back, as the made light conversation in the dark backroom. It was a pleasant, friendly place, and for a few hours, Fabiola felt right she was where she was supposed to be, comfortable in their motherly company.

But that was, of course, before she had been stabbed in the back with a fork.

oOo

It was impossible for a growing young lady with a tragically artistic eye to remain clothed for the few miserly coins the Varden got to her every year. It wasn't that she squandered her money on trifles; expensive clothes, fans, pretty nonsense. But she was a seamstress, and she did have her pride. She wouldn't fashion a dress for herself out of sacking, the best her allowance could give her. Well, she understood at least. It wasn't as if the Varden could afford to splurge with her salary – she was still a child to them, after all. She had three choices.

One was unwise to mention in civilized company, if such a thing existed in Teirm – though mentioning it might have resulted in a few more customers.

One would earn her a quick drop off a high platform – dabbling in stolen goods just wasn't classy.

And the last was degrading, ill-paid and torturously hard when you were a passably attractive young girl with a full working day behind you, and a meagre sum of food to sustain you.

Tavern work.

It was dinnertime, and rowdy as it always was on market day, when Fabiola tied the apron around her waist, and pushed her dark hair behind her ears, willing herself not to pass out in the soup.

'Fab, three stout gentlemen, quick now!'

Fabiola nodded and deftly filled three tankards, pondering deeply to herself how unbelievably pointless this effort was, watching the foam settle on the amber surface.

'Thanksluv,' the drunk merchant slurred at her as she set the beer down. She didn't bother with a reply, and stalked off.

'Oooh, sour puss today, Fab.' The voice behind her sounded amused, but Fabiola scowled.

'Bite me.' she retorted**.**

Her red-headed friend smirked at her over her own arm full of glasses. Fabiola glared at her for a moment, before sighing, and dumping the dirty glasses she carried behind the bar.

'Lass! Can we get some service here?' she heard the call behind her, and sighed, as she began gathering the dirty tankards.

'You know, sometime I wonder why I bother, Aina,' she told her friend apathetically. Her friend narrowed her eyes.

'Feeling alright, Fab? You look a little pale, and you're acting strange.'

'I know, I know. Not perfect. Just one of those days, I suppose.' She shook her head and shivered, as if trying to shake the odd feeling off while snatches of poetry played in her head. None of them were cheering, and all where only half-remembered.

Her friend patted her on the shoulder.

'Oh, cheer up, you. You bother because there's hope of a better life somewhere, Fab. You bother because we're all girls together, stuck in this one rut. And you bother,' the girl said, winking at the sailor who had just slipped her a sly coin, 'because occasionally the tips are simply excellent. That's a new bonnet for me,' she said happily, slipping the coin down her bodice and patting it affectionately. Fabiola couldn't help but smile.

'Service, please! I don't have all day!'

'Do you want to sit down, Fab? You really don't look well,' Aina returned, looking anxious.

'No, I'm fine, Aina. Besides, this is the only night I'm on this week, and I desperately need a new dress. This one is just worn to rags … The ladies in the dress-shop look at me as if I'm some … common _rat, _or something.' Fabiola's pallid face flared with shame as she clashed the tankards together to bring them to the kitchens. She hated being spit upon by the privileged folk all around her. Sometimes she wished she had never known respectability, so that she wouldn't have to covet it.

Aina gave her a strange look as she followed her friend through the dank passage where no customers not bent on misdemeanors would venture.

'But love … you _are_ a common rat. That's all you are. That's all you'll ever be. Like me. Like them. Like every poor creature that wanders into places like this, or who has to scrape a living in these streets. We are _all_common rats. Someone's got to be.'

Fabiola stared back, and shook herself, tried to take the comment as kindly as it had been meant. It was nothing less than the truth. Aina went on, gaily scrubbing at the plates.

'Besides, deary, you don't see me complaining!'

'That's because you never do. If you were respectable, you'd never get away with a bodice that racy.'

Aina laughed, splashing Fabiola with the dirty dish-water.

'True. Sometimes it's great being scum!'

oOo

A black eye was the least of Fabiola's worries.

With a sigh, she turned her head slightly to see better her reflection in the cracked glass and sighed again. Never much to look at, that as may be sure … but usually she was in a condition fit to be seen upon the streets without respectable women running screaming from her vile visage.

_For pity's sake, Fabiola,_she thought wryly to herself, raising a warm sodden rag to her eye, _what would your mother say?_

_Nothing complimentary, that's for sure,_she thought, as she gave another wear**y** sigh, and moaned, throwing herself down on her bed, and swearing as she tugged a fork out of her back, tossing it across the room.

Fabiola didn't know how it had gotten there, and didn't particularly care. Whatever gods there were seemed to think her a worthy victim of their twisted humour. _She_ never found it particularly funny.

With a tremendous effort, Fabiola pulled herself up to stow her dark cloak in her hanging closet, and scrubbed ineffectually with her nails at the stiff dried blood-stain across it, before shrugging mentally, wrapping it into a ball and drop-kicking it into the bottom of her press, before purposefully turning her back on it. If she couldn't see it, it didn't have to be there.

That selective vision was a luxury that she was only able to boast of here in Teirm – life was different back home.

She remoistened her rag, and pressed it again to her eye. She was well aware that what she was doing would by no means alleviate any damage suffered to her face, but at that moment in time, buying a steak to stick over her eye was a little beyond her means. Instead she grimaced, and gingerly felt the perforations in her back from the fork, sighing to herself.

It was just her luck. She had been born underneath the proverbial lucky star, she had. "Plain-sailing" as her middle name. Once you ignored the trail of disasters that followed her about continually.

She pulled the wad away from her eye, and blinked experimentally. One opened and closed in good time; the other dragged and blurred, rendering it quite useless. Fabiola pouted, and sat once again upon her bed, before leaning back to stare at the ceiling above her. It was cracked right across, an angry black pucker across the greying and chipped plasterwork. The ceiling of this decrepit hovel she had been bunking in for the guts of four years. She didn't know how she had survived.

At least there was no-one sharing with her. Small mercies were the only things that made her life bearable.

Still, though, she thought, she hadn't gotten where she was by being so negative. Fabiola stared about the cesspit she was trapped in, and wondered whether some rather fine negativity might be the exact thing she needed to kick-start her life again. Maybe, if she was particularly irate and irritating to be around, her miserable life would miraculously turn itself around.

_Oh, mother_, she suddenly thought desperately to herself, _was I that bad a daughter? Did you lose a bet up there to the god of misfortune, and he smote me as a punishment upon you?_

Brawls were common in the tavern, a regular occurrence, but usually the maids were able to scurry away before suffering any serious pain. She had been right in the middle of the room when it had started, though, with no escape, except through the fray.

Fabiola took a deep breath. As much as she wanted to wallow in her own misfortune, she knew in the back of her mind that things could be a lot worse. If she thought hard enough, she was convinced she could think up at least three other situations more desperate than hers … if only the effort didn't make her feel so sleepy …

oOo

'But I feel stupid!' Eragon protested in a mumble at Brom, as he was dragged forcibly through the streets. Who knew one old man could possess such an iron-like grip when called to? And he looked so harmless too …

'I really don't care,' Brom told him airily, turning a sharp corner down another street. Eragon stumbled, and blushed.

'A women's dress shop!' he hissed, as if it was a much less respectable establishment.

'Yes?' Brom replied innocently.

Eragon was stumped.

'But we're men! We can't just wander into a women's dress shop!'

Brom took another sharp turn, yanking Eragon after him, who swore colourfully.

'Well, my boy, I did believe that _you_had not yet reached your sixteenth birthday yet, but in essence, yes, we are both men. And stop swearing, it's unbecoming.'

Eragon blushed a deeper shade of red, taking umbrage at Brom's comments, but had no time for retribution, or even a decent comeback, being thrown against Brom's side, as he changed directions again, faster than was remotely necessary, and chuckling malevolently at Eragon's clumsiness.

'Besides,' he cut in, 'we are not here to sample the latest fashion for ladies, lad. We are here to find our operative. And he'll likely be hefting boxes, or some other such manual task, so we might be lucky, and not have to enter the shop at all. So stop fretting, you sound like a woman yourself.'

And with that, and another sharp change of direction, Brom dragged Eragon to the front of a modest shop. It had wooden shutters painted an earthy brown colour covering the windows. It was a nice part of town, full of well-dressed people, making Eragon feel even more awkward. He couldn't read the sign painted above the shop in its swirling yellow runes, but he could tell it was something inherently feminine.

He sighed.

Brom strode ahead of him, striding along with his staff down the alley beside the shop, where a burly man stood pulling packages off a hand-cart standing beside the door in the back of the shop. As Eragon followed, the man walked into the shop, hefting a bundle. He reappeared a moment later and stood at the cart. Brom approached cautiously.

'Good day, good sir,' he said confidently, before lowering his voice.

'They say the Menoa blossoms truer now,' he said significantly, winking.

The man looked lost, and turned to Eragon.

'Right, sir … whatever you say,' he said, raising his eyebrows at Eragon and turning back to his work. Brom seemed put out.

'Oh. My apologies,' he said, before turning and trotting back to the main street. He looked disgruntled.

'Well. That's the easy solution gone,' he said, with a furrowed brow.

'And now?'

'And now, we enter within,' Brom told Eragon resolutely, grabbing his arm before the youth could make a run for it, and marching inside.

It was warm, and bustling and smelled like well-groomed women, powdered and rose-perfumed. Rich women.

Eragon sneezed; expensive scents catching in his throat. He blushed at the irritated and scandalised looks and mutters that were directed in their direction. Some women hurriedly gathered fabric up to preserve their modesty, while others shrieked, and toppled off stools. Eragon felt like he was glowing as he stared intently down at his boots, before realising that they were a shabby mess, and blushing redder.

Brom ignored this and drew up to the counter. The middle aged woman behind it glanced up and gave both males a quick once over, looking more than ready to grab each by the scruff of the neck and bodily remove them from the shop.

'Yes, gentlemen?' she said, hesitating, balling her impressive fists. Eragon wondered idly if there were such people as rebel-rousers in dress-shops.

'Ah, the . . . the Menoa blossoms truer now,' Brom tried again, but was met with the same blank expression. He sighed.

'I'm sorry, but might you be able to fetch me the manager of this establishment?'

'_I_ amthe manager_ess_,' the women said proudly, looking very ready to defend her claim, drawing herself up to her full height proudly. Brom cringed slightly.

'Ah … well, then, I – I need to … get a dress for my – daughter and her wedding. Collect it, I mean.'

Brom finished his halting explanation and threw an almost beseeching look at the woman, who pursed her lips disapprovingly.

'When did your daughter order her dress?'

The lies dripped _effortlessly_ from Brom's lips.

'I believe sometime … in the time, last … you know … actually, mistress, I have no idea. You know these young brides …' he trailed off, and spied the book open on the counter with names and measurements written in a copper-plate hand-writing.

'Perhaps it would be in the register,' he suggested, and Eragon guessed he was trying to buy time.

'Ah. Well, in that case – Fabiola!' the woman turned and called someone on the floor.

'She's not here, madam,' a small blonde girl with large blue eyes and a suspicious expression curtsied, pausing in pinning a long gown.

'Well, where is she? Go find her? Why are you not gone? AINA! You're supposed to take care of these things!' the woman shouted behind her and began berating a bored, pale looking redheaded girl**.**Eragon paid no heed to her shouted instructions.

'What do we do now, Brom?' he asked in a quiet voice. Brom looked skittish.

'He's here, he _must_be here … I need to find him …'

Brom looked about himself in a slightly wild fashion, as the bell over the door rang gaily, and a stooped figure crossed the threshold, led by the little blonde girl, and the imposing woman stopped yelling and looked just mildly cross.

'Fabiola – to your post,' she said, coldly, and the stooping figure, who appeared to be a tall girl skulked forth into the light, her long hair hanging over her face in what must be a thoroughly awkward fashion.

'Look for – what did you say your daughter's name was?' the woman turned, harried to Brom, who smiled.

'I didn't. Her name is … Merlyn,' he decided.

The girl bowed her head obediently as she read the small print looking, futilely, as Eragon knew, for the fabled Merlyn.

A bell sounded, and a whoosh of cold air stung Eragon's neck as the door opening. A large man, dressed in violent colours and carrying several swatches of bright material, entered. While the rest of the women in the shop shrieked again, the formidable manageress' face immediately softened to a smile, and Eragon felt slightly sickened.

'Mistress Goldra!' the merchant boomed. The woman positively beamed.

Brom seized his chance, seeing the girl turning back now a page to check even later dates.

'The Menoa blossoms truer now,' he said, as if to no-one in particular. The merchant frowned at him, and sashayed in front of him to address the manageress, who glared heavily at Brom. Eragon blushed. He didn't hear the sale-girl gasp, so intent was he on his humiliation. She cleared her throat, as Brom turned around to fruitlessly search the faces in the crowded shop.

'Ah, but sweeter still run the waters of the Gaena,' she said quietly. Brom didn't hear. Eragon didn't notice. She sighed, stood up and repeated even louder still.

Eragon didn't even notice what she was saying, as her hair slipped off her face, and the dark shiner around her eye was suddenly visible. He couldn't stop staring at it, even when her mouth puckered with distaste, and her chin tilted proudly upwards, even through her cringe.

Brom stared at her distrustfully for a moment, before she shrugged.

'I merely state a fact, sir,' she said, evenly, and shrugged, but there was a silent plea in her face that Eragon could see clearly, and a fear lurking there too, in the tightness of her grip on the book in her hand, and in the set of her lips.

_Who_is _this? Is this who Brom was looking for? And if so, why?_

'Well, my lady, there is no doubt indeed that it does … my lady,' Brom said, courteously, turning to the manageress, who looked stunned, and resentful, 'the price of my lady's absence for the day. She shall be returned to you in no time, in good order, too, I do declare,' he said, and bowed, placing the coins in the greedy palm, and offering the girl his arm. She smiled uncertainly at him, as they swept from the shop, Eragon trotting after them, feeling very confused, little knowing his confusion was but a drop in the ocean to the unassuming seamstress.

oOo

And somewhere, in a castle, a baby cried. A church-bell knelled dolefully in a village, though no-one was there to ring it. In the Varden, a boy coughed feebly, and a nurse shook her head at his older brother, a sad look on her kindly lined face. A glass smashed, a sword clanged, a red egg stirred restlessly …

And miles away, upon his knees, the son of Morzan spat out a mouthful of blood and grimaced, cursing his own bad luck, little knowing how much was in store for the poor, ill-fated tailor of the Varden he would soon meet.

xXx

**A/N: First off - Beta read by the lovely DrownedHopes, who is amazing, and we love her. ;)**

**Second: Hope you like it. It's better now, folks, I promise, because I have !plot! and Daph. Who, as we have said before, is amazing. So, it's all good. I am having a crazy time of life at the moment (e.g: Antigone ... Timpeallacht ... Twilight ... Wesley bag-packing ... Tim Burton ... LAMDA ... Crimbo) but I do hope you enjoy, especially everyone who favourited or reviewed, or****what-have-you. Tell me what you think of the improved version, loves! -Wraithlike**

**_Updated: 30-5-11_**


	3. Chapter 2

_When the future's architectured  
By a carnival of idiots on show  
You'd better lie low …  
- Violet Hill – Coldplay_

~Chapter Two~

~Nowhere to Hide~

No matter how hard you tried to ignore the fact, there was no getting over how awkward a situation it was when an old man with obvious links to the only rebel movement in the land, his young companion who may or may not be the very last hope of Alagaesia and a battered teenage seamstress were all forced to share light conversation over sweet tea in the parlour of a strange merchant's house.

Especially when the butler quite obviously intends to eavesdrop for all he's worth.

'I must admit, I was expecting someone of more … advanced years,' the man admitted, with a small smile. Fabiola smiled back in a faintly sickened manner, and took a shaky gulp of lukewarm tea, mind racing, and tongue feeling unnaturally still.

The boy, who was looking angry and distrustful, set down his teacup with such violence that the liquid slopped over the sides, and splattered the fine rug with little brown spots. Fabiola thought it a shame; like everything else here, it was beautiful, elaborate, and probably worth more than her own life.

'I want to know what's going on,' he said in a low voice, which would have been intimidating it hadn't just occurred to Fabiola how remarkably similar he looked to her brother. An odd, out-of-the-blue realisation, and it shocked her. She hadn't thought of the boy, far away from her for a long time. But he was safe; there was no reason to feel guilty, she told herself, as she turned, reluctantly back to the conversation at hand. Life went on.

'Enough – beating about the bush!' the boy exclaimed, shooting Fabiola a scathing glance, and glaring at the old man who stared back evenly.

Nerves began to claw at her belly.

The old man carefully set his cup down, wiped his mouth elegantly, and nodded.

'You are indeed correct, Eragon. The time for beating about the bush has long passed,' he said, gravely, before his eyes sparked dangerously, and he moved to the strike faster than Fabiola would have thought him capable.

'Slytha!' he barked, and the boy's head lolled limply onto his chest.

Fabiola's teacup didn't smash when it hit the elaborately decorated floor-covering, but the last vestiges of tea splashed over the carpet. She jumped with a quick apology to sop it up with her cloak, hardly knowing where to look and feeling her heart hammer, terrified, in her throat.

If she had ever felt more confused, it was the time she had been told that there was a special job for her to do because she was a special person, and it would be important to the land's freedom. Little did she know that six years later, when finally called to service, she would feel close to tears, frightened out of her wits, and about a league and a half out of her depth.

She could only spend so much time on her knees before having to struggle with as much dignity as possible into her chair and meet the gaze of the mysterious spell-caster before her, trying to quell the urge to stare fearfully at the man. She remembered cruel tricks of the Varden's own Du Vrangr Gata.

'He's only sleeping,' the man said, his blue eyes kind, even if his voice sounded tired. Fabiola narrowed her eyes, and examined the man as boldly as she dared.

His long beard was grey, like his hair, and he was dressed in an ordinary fashion. A staff lay on the ground beside him, and his blue eyes were bright and strong. There would be nothing sinister about him at all, if she had passed him in the street in an ordinary setting. But here, in this room, with an "unconscious" youth passed out over his chair, and a death-sentence hanging over her, Fabiola was in not mood for charity.

'Who are you? What do you want with me?'

_WHY IN THE GODS NAME ARE YOU PLYING ME WITH TEA AND PASTERIES?_

The old man sighed, and fixed a piercing gaze on Fabiola, who was glad that she had sounded angry instead of tearful.

'How old are you?' he asked her suddenly. She looked skeptical, and taken aback.

'A lady of class, I see,' Brom sighed and reached for his tea again.

Fabiola stared back, wondering if she should act dignified and mature or just go with her gut feeling and bolt. She wasn't sure if this man was joking, playing with her, or just preparing to murder her, butler or no.

Brom didn't give her a chance to decide.

'You _are_of the Varden, aren't you? That's why you answered the call, and why you are in Teirm**,** and no doubt the reason for a good deal of things that have shaped your life. You _are_one of them, are you not?'

It was a direct question. There was nowhere left to hide.

She took a deep breath. 'I am. Forgive me my surprise, sir, but I have dwelled in Teirm since for many years undisturbed; and had never thought my service would be called upon. There were many more – suitable individuals than I.' She blushed.

'You're not that old,' he said, and Fabiola blinked.

'Sorry?'

'You. You're not old enough to talk like that. Stop it; it sounds odd. How old _are_you? Really. _He's_ fifteen,' he said, pointing at the slumped teen. Fabiola's chin raised slightly.

'Seventeen,' she said, evenly.

He sighed.

'And you're a seamstress.'

'I'm a tailor, _sir,_' she corrected, defiantly. There was no shame in being a seamstress, but she disliked the man's tone. He sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair.

'… can't believe this … some sewing child …' he muttered to himself.

'What are you doing here? Why did they send _you_?' he asked, sounding impatient.

_I don't know,_she longed to answer. _I have no idea. Can I go back to the shop now? I won't complain about being poor again …_

She didn't want to tell him the truth. Nervously picking at her gloves, she was all set to lie, and go back to her toiling position in the shop. Her future stood on the brink of one thought.

She could lie … and run.

But she couldn't. She knew what she would have to do; it was burned into her flesh, and flowed through her veins.

She didn't have a choice. Her tongue was already twisting itself into the words.

'I shouldn't have an answer for you. Who I am should have no bearing on why I'm here, but it does, as … silly and ill-considered as it was, but they never expected me to …'

_Prove my worth. Survive beyond a year. Come back to haunt them._

Fabiola trailed off, looking uncomfortable. The man frowned. She took a deep breath, as if preparing to leap off a cliff into dark and unknown waters.

'I am Fabiola, one of the Varden guardians of the next Rider.'

Fabiola longed to shudder, or get sick, as the words pulled themselves from her unwilling lips. It was a most disgusting sensation, and she loathed the Varden for it. The old man didn't seem to realise her discomfort, and at that moment, she didn't think there was anyone she disliked more than him.

'I've heard your name before. Fabiola … who was your father?' he asked, frowning.

_Stop talking!_her own mind screamed, but the words still streamed relentlessly out of her. This man had called her vows to truth, and she was bound to his questions.

'His name was Arphenion.'

Oh, how she loathed it! The old man leaned back, and nodded, looking as if he understood, but as if the revelation had a special significance to him. His eyes swept over her face, searching for another's. She hated it – why should this unworthy stranger be trusted with her father's name? She may not have known the man well, but he was _her_father. Just another link in the chain that bound her here today …

'Arphenion Vraelsson,' he breathed, smiling slightly, in a manner that did nothing to alleviate Fabiola's unease, as her face tightened with disappointment.

'Heir to his legacy.'

_Damn it. Damn, damn, damn it. Why did he have to know? … and as for a legacy … ha!__Some legacy he left me,_she thought, feeling irritated, powerless, and with the vague sensation of a lot of decisions being made over her at once, with very little of her own say in the matter. Fabiola kept his searching gaze. _If there is a legacy, it falls to Zach. I am, as ever, surplus to requirements._

'And you … his daughter.'

_Well, that's it. You cannot go back now. The way is closed; and you're stuck. Again._

'Why are you here?'

His voice was low and soft, and almost pitying, Fabiola's eyes stung at its gentleness.

'Because it was the will of the Varden that I should come here.'

She looked into his blue eyes that now seemed so kind, and frowned. The compulsion had passed … for now, but it still hovered out of sight, ready to leap back and force her to speak. But next time she would be ready. She didn't need to tell the whole truth …

'All it took was my kinship to Vrael to seal the deal, I suppose. It shouldn't be the reason I'm here. But, there you go … life's – life's not fair …'

The man took another sip of his tea and watched her face intently.

'I knew him, you know,' he said, suddenly.

'Knew who?'

'Arphenion. Back in the day, of course … how is he?'

The man looked wary, as if expecting her bad news, and she could see why. Had her father still been alive, she didn't think she'd be alone in Teirm far from the Varden and any sort of escort.

'Um … cold, I suppose. He's been dead for fourteen years. Almost fifteen, now, in fact …'

_But you already knew that, of course…_

The old man nodded a moment, not looking particularly surprised, before setting his cup down gently, and clearing his throat.

'My condolences.'

_Why would I want your pity? He's been dead too long to make any difference to me._

Fabiola crossed her arms.

'Where have you been all these years? And just who are you? Because, unless I'm very much mistaken, that child passed out in the chair is the next Rider, and he somehow trusts you with his life. And you knew my father, but didn't know that he's been dead for nigh on a decade and a half at this stage. If you were one of the Varden, then you managed to escape in one sweep, and I don't see how. As far as I saw it, once you were in, you were in for life.'

Fabiola sat back, pleased with her speech, but knowing that now she was rightly backed into a corner.

'I don't want to lie to you,' the man told her, setting down his cup, and examining the two biscuits on the plate with undue reverence, to avoid her own gaze.

She stared at him, a reserve keeping her silent. He smiled at her closed expression.

'Your head is awhirl with thoughts. Share them.'

There was some sort of power in the words which bade her comply.

'But … why ever not? I'm young, unaccompanied, of no particular importance … if I _could_, I'd be lying to you too!'

The man frowned heavily, his pleasure erased.

'Because … I did know Arphenion. And his wife. Your mother. But you're not a lot like him.'

'Really?'

She was interested, in spite of herself. Zach remembered him; but didn't like discussing either parent. People never talked to her about them, other than reverently mentioning her father's name nervously after her own.

The man nodded, and looked up at her.

'He was a straight-forward man. No secrets, no deceptions with him. A good, honest, _noble _creature. You couldn't lie to him. He just stared at you, with his big, honest eyes … and waited. He had a knack for guilt, he did. He was calm, placid … measured. Logical. As was correct, with his people. But your mother and he were polar opposites. I knew her … well. Well enough. Bright. Always a bright person, but sharp and caustic, always. She loved him, though. More than anything, I think. And you, of course, and … Zachary. I remember him too. Very like Arphenion. And you, too, vaguely. You were only a baby.'

'Why do you say, "was"? I never told you she was dead …'

The old man scrutinised her.

'She loved your father very, very much. I never expected her to endure long after him.'

Fabiola was silent, trying to absorb what he had told her.

'You look like your mother,' he said, quietly.

'Too much. But with your fathers eyes. Big, innocent eyes. Too innocent to lie to,' he said, more to himself than the girl opposite him.

Fabiola found herself loosening, which was stupid. Her name was common knowledge in the Varden; it was no reason to trust him. And just because he had mentioned her mother …

'I'm Brom, you know,' he told her, abruptly, and suddenly, she could see it. She didn't say anything. She knew who Brom was. She could see it now, in his age, the air of wisdom, the sadness to him.

_But I thought you were –_

'They all think I'm dead, don't they? You did. I can see it. Well, I'm not a ghost, Delia. I'm just Eragon's teacher – a village story-teller. That's all I am anymore, so don't expect anything great or momentous from me.'

'I'm Fabiola.'

'What?'

'You called me Delia. That was my mother.'

'Oh. Sorry. You _are_ a lot like her.'

Brom smiled at the girl before him, and noted that she didn't smile back. She was staring intensely at the floor, giving him a good chance to look her over.

Her eyes pierced straight off. Dark, wide, and as innocent as any child's. Far too innocent for a girl who seemed so bitter and aged beyond her years. But through the bitterness was something about them that promised a natural beauty in time.

She was frowning, thoughtful, and if he was honest, he couldn't blame her. He had given her a lot to think about. Her skin was pale, so pale that she looked sickly, but then again, he remembered a similar pallor about her father. As was fitting. He knew in houses of aristocracy, it was considered the height of fashion, but here, in the slums of Teirm, it just looked unhealthy. He judged it to be from sitting indoors all the time. Her ears were not pierced, and she wore no ornaments to show she was anything other than a simple tailor. Her face was nicely shaped, and her whole appearance seemed alert and curious, and altogether, not a whole heap like her father, except for the dark straight hair, but even in that, there glimmered the coppery hair of her mother. She was not fully grown, it was clear to him, still shedding the baby-fat with far to go in her adolescence, of differing race as she was. Her face was becoming angular, she looked tall; she would be beautiful, he realized. If she were given a chance.

He remembered her words of a moment ago …

_Once you're in, you're in for life._

It sounded bitter, and hopeless. She hated the Varden; he could just tell. And he was sorry.

'So … Fabiola. You know my story, and I know yours. Where does that leave us now?'

She looked up, startled.

'I go with you and Eragon to the Varden, do I not?'

'What if I don't want Eragon to go to the Varden?'

'Then I follow you anyway, and wait for you to pass the Varden gates. Even if you don't, I still have to follow. Oaths, you know. I don't have a choice. It's leave or die, once they've been invoked.'

Brom's eyes widened.

_They couldn't have …_

'They made you swear oaths?'

'Just the one. And then … they used my true name.'

_Bastards!_

'As a youngster, I - I suppose it was easier …' She trailed off, and began picking at the threading on her bodice.

'Eragon too has little choice, really … He can go to the Varden, he can die, attacked or some other such inconvenience, or he can work for Galbatorix, of his own free-will or otherwise.'

Fabiola nodded, and glanced at him.

'He's very young, for such a burden,' she said, and sighed.

'I pray that my services will – be of use,' she forced out, uneasily, and cleared her throat, with a look that unmistakably said, _I'm going to die, aren't I?_

_Yes, child,_his look plainly answered, but she didn't look away, and in her dark innocent eyes he could see acceptance.

'I will fight for him, Master Brom,' she said, rising, and laughed slightly. 'I don't have a choice in the matter. When do you leave?'

_Will you wait for me?_

'A week. I'll inform you of when you should follow,' he said, swiftly, but Fabiola could see his reasoning, and wasn't going to go against him.

_I have my obligations, as I'm sure he has his. But the sooner I leave, the sooner I can be home, and not have to worry about leaving again …_

'And Fabiola?'

She paused, on her way out the door.

'Good luck with life, daughter of Arphenion.'

_You're going to need it._

Fabiola blinked, curtsied, and was gone.

_I just met Delia from beyond the grave,_Brom smiled to himself. _I remember her as a girl, cold, perhaps not as bitter, but perhaps even more so than her steely daughter. But it's an act. Just like Delia._

_I hope her Arphenion is as kind as he was._

Brom sighed as he looked at the unconscious son who lolled beside him, and felt the pride stirring through him like a living thing. That was _his_son beside him, born to great things. His young son, noble and focussed still.

But that girl was pretty …

Brom remained smiling, ruminating on what a life she would have following them around Alagaesia, and decided that it would be better for her sake too to let her lose them thoroughly on the road. He examined the boy's unconscious face for a moment, before sighing, and preparing to awaken him once again. "Tossed in at the deep end" didn't even begin to cover things for that boy.

oOo

Fabiola didn't have to spell things out for Aina when she returned to the kitchens of the tavern that night. There was something defeated about the slump of her shoulders, and when Aina called her name to gain her attention, she looked up at her with eyes that spoke too clearly to be Fabiola's own. She only wished she could understand what they were saying.

Returning with an armful of greasy platters and a merrily annoying tune stuck in her head and whistling on her lips, she saw Fabiola staring around the dank room ponderously, as if trying to memorise it. The girl turned to look at her with lips that moved soundlessly, painfully, with not a word upon them. She smiled, sadly, and said, 'It's not such a bad place, Aina,' before picking up a plate and scrubbing at it with an unknown vigour.

The red haired girl fastened her arms about her friends shoulders, with a sniff more eloquent than her simple lips could ever utter.

_Don't leave me here, Fabs. I know you have to, but don't._

'Wish I knew who you are, Fabs,' she said, and Fabiola's eyes closed for a moment.

'A seamstress child. A lady of class. Daughter of Arphenion. One of the Warders. A girl of no particular individual importance.'

She turned to return the hug properly.

'Fabiola, your friend and fellow common rat, Aina. I always will be.'

When Fabiola left, a week later, she told no-one. But a note appeared in Aina's cloak.

_If ever you need protection, travel east. Fabiola of the Warders sent you, if anyone asks._

_Goodbye, Aina. I hope we will meet again._

It was just a pity Aina couldn't read.

xXx

**A/N: Iosa Chriost, I'm such a bitche lofa to my lovely ladies! Ah, well. Beta'd by the lovely DrownedHope, who despite the mightily depressing username is truly fabulous. Seriously, like. Pulled this one from the mire, anywho. Well, lads, hope you're enjoying. Drop me a review - it's Christmas after all! xxx**

**Updated: 1-6-11**


	4. Chapter 3

_I will be chasing the starlight  
Until the end of my life  
I don't know if it's worth it anymore …_

_- Muse - Starlight_

~Chapter Three~

~Struggling~

_To be moneyed… I would give anything in the world,_Fabiola thought absently as she winced, the leather strap of a pack seeming to weigh at least half of her body weight digging a red ridge into her shoulder.

_Why, think of it! If I was rich, I could have afforded a horse that didn't cop it after five miles._

Fabiola tumbled over a stray rock in her path sliding onto the dusty ground. Swearing inelegantly, as she picked herself up, but couldn't help thanking the gods that she had managed to scavenge some suitable clothing. It might not be pretty or fashionable, which much offended her sensitive tastes, but it as thanks to them that her knees were not currently two large and bloody holes.

She had tried to find a nice elegant travelling outfit as befitting her (somewhat dubious) status. But since even _that _was in danger, she didn't think it wise to go for the pretty travelling gowns, as much as she craved them. They were made for rich girls**;** long, sedately coloured gowns suitable for riding horses, perhaps in the most _barbaric_ cases over short distances, then be pulled off by maids, exclaiming, 'Oh, my lady! How terrible that you had to wear such _rags!_' before she would toss them in the fire, and the noble lady would sit smiling prettily as she was laced and braided by a devoted force of servants.

Not that she was bitter, or anything. Hardly.

Fabiola sighed.

She had handled beautiful clothes for many years, remembering the expensive fabrics, their worth measured in how difficult the materials were to gain, and how long they took to take shape. She remembered gossamer-fine sheets of pearly white of gowns and laces, dripping through her fingers like liquid. She remembered fiery red fabrics and emerald green ones. She remembered sewing until her fingers ran blood to finish the beautiful creations. She had loved them. But bitterness had remained, constant and sour in her heart as she had grown up around these beautiful things, and rich ladies, having everything that could have been hers. She remembered another little girl, back home … no doubt simply _dripping_in expense and embellishments, while Fabiola slaved in hemp petticoats, and her inheritance mouldered in the dusty cabinets of her home.

It wasn't fair. But then, neither was life. Fabiola had learned that long ago, and accepted it.

She had had a horse … for a while. Not in the beginning, which had been a foolish idea, she thought, climbing over a hillock in the land still limping, but then again she hadn't expected the distance to be so … _vast_.

The leg-power express was serving her well, apart from the fact that her legs were on fire, and death would be welcome, if she gave into her melodramatic tendancies. Well. It wasn't that bad, she had to admit. She was used to running about Teirm, and she had always been capable of stamina. It was in the blood.

A stab of guilt assailed her when she thought of the horse. It hadn't been her fault, she reasoned fruitlessly with herself. The damned thing had been on its way out of the world long before she had the misfortune of knowing it. However, its dying wheezes still sounded in her head … she shuddered. She had been too chicken to kill it herself, but too guilt-stricken to walk away, and so had dallied and scuffed about and watched it die for a few hours. Then she tried to dig it a grave, which didn't work very well, possessing neither spades nor a good deal of strength. She managed to make a dent in the surface of the soil, but unfortunately, even after she plucked up to courage to touch it, the horse refused to be shoved onto the "grave". So, instead, its corpse was probably still rotting alongside it. Fabiola quickly tried to block the mental images by thinking of something else.

She tripped over again, and this time the explosion of cursing was much more tearful and violent. Fabiola was beginning to doubt that she would actually make it … wherever she was going, _alive_. She sighed, as she purposefully sprinted to the top of the hill to look out over a beautiful, open, desolate land.

She stifled her sigh, and began walking again. She just had to get to Dras Leona. That was it. Once she was there, she'd be able to find them, or some trace of them, or, if in the highly unlikely but even more highly coveted instance that they'd disappeared without a trace, then she could find a way to the Varden on her own. And that was it. She would have done all she could.

But privately, her resolutely thumping boots spelled out a familiar rhythm, and she longed more than anything for her Hessian petticoats and the mindless chatter of the girls working all around her.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

oOo

The rabbit scurried away unharmed a good six feet left of where the arrow had embedded itself in the earth. Fabiola sighed, and hung her head hopelessly.

Thanks the gods above and below that was alone, and almost at bloody Dras Leona. Fabiola shivered, and her stomach grumbled. She had not eaten in a day and a half, and all she had left was a half slice of the same loaf she had left Teirm with all those god-awful weeks ago, and, considering that she valued her life, she was just going to let it lie.

But she was being presented with a slight problem. Suppose she _did_ find Brom and Eragon? They would no doubt notice soon enough that the girl sent to be their Varden guardian angel was a sham, a seam-sewer with no better aim than a drunken pastry chef, and about as much experience with the bow that banged off her back at every step.

Packing her bag the night before her journey had been sobering.

_Fabiola gazed despairingly at the bundle spread across the mysteriously burned bed spread that covered her straw pallet._Well, it wasn't that mysterious, really. She had knocked over a candle, and spent a good deal of time swearing and panicking before sluicing water over the flames._She had leggings now, at least, thanks to another sleepless and painful night in the shop. Her fingers were stiff with bandages at this stage, but unbroken, as yet …_

_Fabiola's hands shook as she picked up her bow from where she had stowed in her closet all those years before, and a feeling of guilt swept through her. Despite her neglect of it, the polished wood still gleamed faithfully, and the bow-string was still relatively taut. The smooth lines were familiar and comfortable as she ran her hands over them. She remembered the man who had made it for her._

_He had worked in the armoury of the Varden, a crass, crotchety man. She remembered sitting in the armoury and gazing about the place with a longing look about her, and being chivvied away by him impatiently for getting underfoot. She remembered being told that she should go to Teirm and work for the Varden there, special and different than everyone else. She was only eleven years old. She remembered feeling terribly responsible and grown-up, somehow graver than eleven years. She remembered Ambry, the old woman who had accompanied her on the journey to Teirm. She had been kind, and motherly. Fabiola had relished her affection, and the old woman had enjoyed the little girl's company. Her own little girl had died many years before, and she doted on Fabiola as her substitute until she died four months after their arrival in Teirm. Fabiola had been alone ever since._

_She remembered lugging her bags to the hall alone, her older brother on patrol, and her younger brother asleep, and the crotchety old man coming forward with that same bow in his hands, much finer than the old practice bows Fabiola had learned her craft on, and putting it in her hands. She remembered the scent of the freshly polished wood, and the tobacco smell that clung to the old man as he patted her shoulder, and walked wordlessly away. She remembered it all so clearly …_

_Fabiola grimly walked to her bed, placed the bow on it, next to the note addressed to the twelve year old son of her kind land-lady, and turned her back on the memory laden thing. She then strapped her new, adult-sized bow to her back, along with her faithful and disused old quiver, picked up her bags and left her home of four years, never to return._

The large bow on her back weighed her down, but it wasn't really that heavy. Something infinitely heavier clung to it. Time.

oOo

Dras Leona was big. And frightening, especially to a girl alone. The people walked swiftly, stiffly, avoiding eye-contact, and beggars lined the streets, missing limbs and eyes. Their keening cry was the town's lullaby. Fabiola repressed a shudder, as she flinched away from them, pacing the streets. She had little enough money when she entered the town, but had been forced by her conscience to give to those neediest of the beggars. She just knew how very close she had come to being one of them.

But, for all the secrets the town possessed, she could find Eragon and Brom nowhere. Though it was no great hardship to her, having no desire whatsoever to accompany them on a suicide mission through the land, she did feel just a mite nervous. The Varden was not known for its benevolence regarding misdemeanors.

If she had just let the new Rider escape the Varden, then her head would roll. She would be tossed out of the Varden, if she wasn't executed.

But then again … What was she now, if not 'tossed out of the Varden'? Was she not alone, unaccompanied, without any financial support of companionship? Had the Varden not abandoned her, an unescorted girl alone in the Empire without her family or a single friend?

Fabiola felt guilty. Of course not. The Varden cared; of course they did. It was an honour, what she was doing; an honour. However, mistakes like this would not be dealt with lightly, and she had better find that young Rider and encourage him forcefully to go to the Varden. Well, when she said _encourage_ … Parrying words was all very well, but sobbing pitifully might be the best encouragement she was capable of, when and if she finally found them.

And so, Fabiola began making enquiries. No stone was left unturned in her search for the truth. She employed every skill and subtlety she had studied under her intensive training as a spy …

Fabiola sidled up to a young guard and winked.

'Seen any dragon Riders recently?'

It was the most that could be expected from a girl armed at eleven with a dagger and told to "make a go of it".

And it worked.

oOo

_In absolute honestly, Zachary couldn't have cared less about the whole fiasco._

Captain Zachary, Son of Arphenion, Heir of Vrael. _Captain_Zachary. Captain.

He didn't care. He didn't care about what Ajihad had to say. He certainly didn't care about what Nasuada had to say, souped up little goat-girl. Bloody Hrothgar could go take a hike. The whole council could jump collectively off a cliff, as much as he cared.

All he could see in his mind's eye when he was finally free of the congratulatory crowd, and could sink down the wall of his room in lone despair was the lined face of the nurse. She was old. She was a matronly, kind woman. She was skilled too. Knew what she was talking about. She had tried. He knew it.

All he could see was her head, being shook sadly from side to side. No. Negative.

His hope – all hope – was gone. He had _failed._

He _wished_ he didn't care.

xXx

**A/N: Well, first off, happy new year, everyone! Hope you all had a good 'un.**

**Secondly, this is dedicated to my lovely beta****Drowned Hopes****who seemed to enjoy this one. Thanks hun! Here's looking at you kid, ya big Zach fangirl. ;)**

**And, please, my lovely readers whom I love, REVIEW THE FREAKING STORY.**_**Seriously,**___**people! Not that hard! And I know a load of you have it on your alerts, or favourites ... please! Give me a nod either way! It'll take you five seconds ... three if you misspell things!**

**So please! Pity a poor Irish girl!**

**-Wraithlike**

**Updated: 4-6-11**


	5. Chapter 4

_Then when the cops closed the fair,  
I cut my long baby hair  
Stole me a dog-eared map  
And called for you everywhere …  
- Flightless Bird – Iron and Wine_

~Chapter Four~

~Lying Eyes~

'We have to kill her!' the tall, dark, handsome one spat at his younger companion, who looked shocked, horrified, and generally on the verge of vomiting. From her position on the floor of the jail (the very hard floor of the jail), curled into a foetal position, and clutching the arm that felt very, very broken, it didn't look as if things were going to go in her favour after all.

_Should have stayed in Teirm …_

oOo

_Four hours previously …_

The two horsemen were dressed in dark colours, with hoods drawn over their faces. Their mounts were fair to behold; strong and obviously expensive. Pure white, and dark grey. Noble steeds.

Fear sat heavily on the town, as people went cautiously about their business, staring at the newcomers fearfully. Stories had reached them, obviously, or horror stories, more likely.

'Something's off,' murmured one to the other.

'We need supplies,' his companion reasoned. 'We'll just have to take the chance.'

His fellow rider made no response, and both continued their approach slowly.

The villagers looked suspicious, but no-one attempted to stop them, except a red-headed youth.

'Eh … halt!' he called, and his voice broke with nerves, though he went on, bravely.

_Kid'll make a good soldier for the king someday, _the grey horse's rider thought cynically.

'What is your business here?'

'All we want is a few supplies. We won't be long,' promised the other rider, soothingly, despite the disgust of his companion.

The kid was indecisive, but he was young, in the eyes of the grey horseman. Not a lot younger than he was, but his shrewd eyes saw the innocence about him. He hadn't seen any of the terrible things happening in the Empire. The town must be pretty untouched.

Seventeen, maybe.

'Well … my ma runs the shop. If you'll follow me …'

The white rider dismounted, and spoke in a low voice to his companion.

'Do we go in?'

'Of course. We're armed … we'll survive. Let's just be quick about it. And don't let your guard down.'

It was common advice, but all the more precious for that fact. His younger companion nodded, and strode ahead, following the red haired youth.

The shop was just a kitchen, obviously the hub of this tiny backwater place. A group of clean, if ragged men sat arguing around the table, and about seven women were sewing together, the surfaces around them strewn with delicate needlework, chattering amiably. The room was warm, and the grey horseman longed to sit down and rest in the safety of this hovel. He knew it was foolish.

'Ma,' the ginger boy said, and a grey haired woman in the centre of the circle rose, and stared in wonderment at the two hooded figures.

'Yes?' she queried, in a voice which quaked.

'We wish for supplies to last a good while … and my companion needs a cloak,' the white horseman said, and his companion could hear the attempt at severity. It was laughable.

The women had stopped sewing, and the men had ceased arguing. All were regarding the newcomers with a mixture of fear and dislike.

The last word seemed to be the grey-haired woman's. She deliberated for a moment, swaying visibly as she tried to decide, before finally frowning, and nodding to her son.

'Very well. But no trouble around here, fellows … Regan! Come and help me get supplies. If you'll come with me,' she said, gesturing to Eragon, 'then Delia will get you the cloak,' she said, addressing the grey horseman, before turning to the circle.

'You know where they are, don't you, pet?' she asked the girl who laid the work by, and rose, stepping into the light.

She nodded, and her simply bound hair winked copper streaks in the light. She turned to look at him, or perhaps frown would be a better description. Dark, intelligent eyes surveyed him with curiosity and a hint of fear, but mostly annoyance.

'If you'll follow me,' she said, courteously, as she led the way from the shop towards the small shack that served as a jail. The horseman began to feel slightly queasy. He could see the posters with his description on them baying for his blood from there.

_Why is she taking me to the jail? What does she know?!_

'Sorry about the oddity of this,' the girl said, glancing behind to smile apologetically at him.

'I know it seems strange, but apparently they keep cloaks in the jail. I think they use cloaks as a form of fine for committing misdemeanours. It's all a little backward around here.'

'Oh? You're not from around here?'

She blushed, and he wondered suspiciously why. Her accent was odd; not city, but not country either. There was a strange cadence on her few words suggesting something else.

'No, just passing through … visiting relations, you see. I got a little stuck here, though. I'm just … waiting for my opportunity to leave.'

_This is certainly odd …_

The doors were battered wood; a hard enough shove would break them easily. It creaked as she opened it, and jammed when he tried to shut it, but he was glad, secretly. He assumed it would scare the girl if he closed the door while she was in the room with a strange hooded man.

The room was dim, the small windows were grimy, but on the wall were about four battered cloaks in varying degrees of filth.

'Sorry, there's not much of a selection,' she said, bashfully, as she unpegged them, and turned fully towards him. Choice swam like a dangerous fish before him.

'Eh … which is the least decrepit?'

She laughed at his tone, and sorted through them in her arms.

'Well, the brown's not that bad, but I think it's too short … what about this?' she asked, holding up a reddish brown cape, of middling respectability.

'Looks good,' he approved. She waited, growing increasingly puzzled.

'Aren't you going to try it on?'

_Oh, no …_

The horseman was going to straight out refuse, but he did need to know if it fitted or not … and besides, the girl was young. She wouldn't recognise him from a short description she's probably never read …

He undid the simple silver clasp, and shrugged the cloak off, feeling self-conscious. He avoided the eye of the girl as he took the cloak gratefully. It almost fit, but was a few inches too short.

'I could let the hem down, if you really wanted,' she said, her fingers pressed against her lips as she scrutinized the ends, before glancing up to look him in the eye.

'I don't mind. I – I used to w- do a lot of sewing.'

'No. It's fine the way it is,' he said, trying not to sound too rude, but to be very firm in his denial, too.

'Suit yourself,' she said, shortly, and he knew it has just been taken as rudeness. For some reason this bothered him.

'But thank you for the offer,' he said, with grudging courtesy, as he draped the cloak around his face again.

The girl half-smiled, and made to open the door again, and scurry out, before the white horseman opened the door with a burst, having shouldered it.

'Sorry,' he gasped, slightly dazed.

'It's jammed from the heat,' he explained himself, in a lower voice, and adjusting his hood, before looking up and meeting the eye of the girl through the shaft of sunlight displaying his face.

For a moment, all was well, as time makes fools of us all … but only for a second or two. Because then, for better or worse, something clicked in each mind, and recognition came hard and fast.

They both screamed.

Afterwards, the grey horseman would forgive the girl for her brief moment of fright, but his male companion would never be completely free of his scorn for the womanish display. But at the time, most of his mind was full of panic, escape plans, worst-case-scenarios, and brief musings on how hard it would be to kill the girl and dispose of her body.

The girl was leaning against the beaten up table, her hands clutched across her face, as if in an attempt to stifle her screams, and her eyes wide and fearful.

'Gods above and below … what are _you _doing _here_?

'What do you mean, 'what am I doing here'? What are _you _doing here?'

It was not lost on the older youth that his companion looked terrified out of his mind, and like he's just seen a ghost. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill her.

'I'm following _you_, obviously! You and that "friend" of yours have given me one hells of a headache, I can tell you! And then you just – turn up! Sweet and just divine …'

'Stop!' the older youth hissed, and conversation halted at once. Both turned to look at him, as if he was now the referee or their conversation. For a moment, he felt helpless, and wondered how he had ended up like that, in the middle of nowhere with a young rider, his dragon, secrets, lies, deceptions and everything in between.

'Who are you?' he demanded, addressing the girl, and ordering his thoughts together. His companion might know, but that wasn't important to him.

'I'm … I'm Fabiola,' she sighed, drooping slightly, but glaring defiantly at him.

'My business is with you,' she said addressing Eragon.

'We can't talk here,' he told her, looking around himself, panicked. 'It's not safe.'

'I don't care. I have to talk to you. Now. Either that or I scream so loud, they won't just be able to hear me in this town, but they'll be able to hear me in Uru'baen. I know who you are, Eragon, last of the Argetlam. I know your story, your mentor, and all about your dra–'

He moved too quickly for her ever to be fully sure afterwards where he had been standing. All she knew was that the blade on her neck was cold, and the hand holding it there was well experienced in the art of killing.

Fabiola had been mugged once. She had been fifteen, but all the man had done was snatched was her purse. She shut her mouth, as the taller youth pinned her arms with his, and held his dagger against the delicate skin of her exposed neck. She had never before felt completely vulnerable, her life in the hands of an armed stranger, who seemed more than comfortable with the knife, with no qualms over killing her where she stood.

It seemed a perfect for analogy for where Fabiola stood in the world. Everything she did was pretty much futile, and could be changed or undone in an instant.

'What are you doing?' Eragon Dragon Rider sounded hysterical, and Fabiola was reminded again of how young he was.

The man holding her tightened her grip. Fabiola couldn't breathe properly. His head was just behind hers, and when he spoke, his voice vibrated through her skull.

'She knows too much. Gods know how she found it out, but we just have to kill her. She's a liability, Eragon.'

'You can't just kill her!' Eragon cried, pulling Fabiola from her captor, but sending her careering into the wall. She stared at the exchange, trying not to whimper.

'We _have_ to kill her!' the taller one spat, casting a reproachful glance at her on the floor.

'But she … in Teirm … just who are you?' Eragon turned to her, looking distraught and lost.

'Fabiola … of the Warders.'

She tried to load it with meaning, but he looked blank. His companion sucked in a breath, though. She didn't spare him a look.

'Where is Brom? I need to talk to him … he trusted me … come on, Eragon! Don't be an idiot! I was sent to help you! For the gods' sake, believe me! Of all those many who seek you, I'm one of the only ones who is _supposed_ to help you!'

Her eyes were alight with something he was slow to recognise as desperation. Desperation to lengthen her life. The primal urge in every human being to preserve their own lives. But there was something else. Desperation to be listened to. Maybe the girl knew something important that she still had to tell him …

'Please. Listen to me.'

Conflict raged in the boy's heart. _Good? Bad? Trustworthy? Let him kill her … forget her … __**listen to her**__. _

The last was Saphira.

'Fabiola,' he said, quieter.

'You have secrets, and you know too much for us to let you go. We have to kill you. But I'll let you speak, and we can see if we'll be able to save your life.'

'Eragon, she's a Warder,' his companion said, in a lower voice, that was urgent, but as if he was talking to someone very dense.

'A Warder?'

'That's what she said,' he admitted, shooting her a suspicious glance.

'What's a Warder?'

The dark haired youth looked stunned.

'One of the Varden. A Warder of the Dragon Riders.'

'Oh!'

Eragon turned back to Fabiola.

'Can you prove it?'

Fabiola stood up, with as much dignity as she could muster, and pulled off the fingerless gloves concealing her fingers. She pressed her hands together, palms facing either other, and crossed her thumbs.

On the side of both of her index fingers was tattooed a 'V' shape, and when brought together, they formed a 'W'.

The taller youth understood, of course, but Fabiola had expected him too. He seemed to be the well informed type. But Eragon just stared.

'What is it?' he asked, and Fabiola cut off his companion's explanations.

'It's the Varden symbol. Most of the loyal warriors have the 'V' but I'm a Warder. I have both.'

She looked just as suspicious of him as he did of her, but she didn't let it still her tongue.

'Eragon. Listen to me. I was sent out many years ago to help whoever it was you were going to be. You need my help.'

She rolled her eyes slightly, and sighed, sounding pained, before trying again.

'Look, I have to go with you. I don't have a choice; I'm bound to servitude under the new order of Riders. Until you pass through the gates of the Varden, or even if you don't, I have to follow you. Unless I'm reprieved by your tutor. Where is Brom? I didn't think he'd let you wander off alone.'

Eragon blushed at the unintentional slight on his age, but didn't let his scrutiny falter.

'I still don't know if I can trust you.'

She but her lip for a moment, fiddling with a nail, before shaking her head.

'I don't know what I can do to gain your trust. I showed you the tattoo, and Brom accepted me as who am I … where is he? He can vouch for me, since he apparently hasn't told you I was coming after you ... but I can say one thing. I hope you understand.'

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes momentarily before speaking swiftly, the words lyrical and heart-felt.

'Eragon Argetlam, tu vakna un skölir du vard Fabiola. Eka weohnata néiat haina ono, vel yawë iet ai Varden abr du Shur'tugal.'

He understood the gist of it.

_Eragon Dragon Rider, you have invoked the protection of Fabiola of the Warders. I will not harm on, on my honour/trust as a Warder of the Riders. _

She spoke the Ancient Language, and couldn't lie …

_Saphira?_

_**I heard her as well as you did. If she is untrustworthy, I will kill her.**_

She sounded satisfied. A shout from outside told him people were coming.

'I hope you're not lying, Fabiola of the Varden. And you have a lot of explaining to do, but come. We must leave … now. Do you have a horse?'

'No. It died.'

She was already pulling her cloak off the wall and fastening it. Eragon glanced at his companion, who raised his eyebrows, in an expression that said, _if you say so._

'How am I going to get out? They keep going on about how I can't leave without a male escort who's a family member, and so on …'

She had taken everything in her stride so far, but had now run out of inspiration. She was pretty, Eragon thought idly, wondering if they could use that to their advantage.

'Any ideas?' he turned to his companion, who busied himself checking his sword was secured, before sighing and looking up.

'Several, but the simplest is probably the best.'

He pointed to the girl.

'Fabiola, right? Okay. You're engaged to me. We're leaving here to get married. Eragon's my brother. He'll do as an escort. I know it'll probably raise questions and feed gossip, but it's better than anything else. Either that, or we just kidnap you.'

Fabiola raised an eye-brow and he could see her thinking of the scene of hardly a moment ago, with his knife and her pale neck getting nicely acquainted …

'Fine. But what's your name? I won't be affianced to a fellow whose name I don't know, even if it's only pretend.'

'I'm Murtagh,' he said, bowing his head ever so slightly, and she nodded seriously.

'Alright, Murtagh. I can see your logic. For the purpose of this exercise, I'll pretend to be your fiancée. But call me Delia, that's my alias here.'

'Fine. Delia. Call me … Travis while we're here.'

'Okay, then.'

The tension in the air was perceptible.

'Call me Neal!' Eragon chipped in, after a moment, breaking the ice, and both relaxed.

'We can't dally any longer,' Fabiola said, moving to the window and peering anxiously out.

'We'll just have to go, and do the best that we can,' Murtagh said, pulling his hood up again, before thinking the better of it, and merely folding it partway around his head.

'Right,' Fabiola said, and brushed her hands off her skirt.

'Switch your ring,' Murtagh said, and she looked blankly back at him. A shout rang out outside the jail, and he hurriedly grabbed her right hand, where a gold ring with a black stone sat, slipping it off and onto her other hand. In much the same motion, she slipped her hand into the crook of his right elbow, and they stood facing the door, feeling as nervous as if they were about to walk up the aisle for real.

Slowly, carefully, he opened the door.

xXx

**A/N: Oh, my God. Sorry about the huge delay on this, folks! Exams, stress ... all that jazz. And no Daphne this time! She should be back soon, but all mistakes are mine. This will probably go walk-about when she beta's it and I change basically everything, (he he) but for now, enjoy, and please review! Thanks a bunch to everyone who has!**

**Wraithlike out!  
**


	6. Chapter 5

_I am not afraid to keep on living  
I am not afraid to walk this world alone  
Honey, if you stay, I'll be forgiven  
Nothing you could say can stop me from going home …  
- My Chemical Romance – Famous Last Words_

~Chapter Five~

~One Step Closer~

_Deja-vu, much?_

She could tell that he was half a second away from tearing his knife out and cutting her a new smile. She could tell very well. His whole body was tensed, warrior-like, in complete contrast to his companion with the innocent eyes and sweet face.

Sweet dark eyes, and a mouth that looked better suited to trembling in tears than speaking of politics and war. For a moment, a wild stab of pity caught her off guard, as she thought again of what a mess had been made of their lives, both twisted and changed irrevocably by the strangest of all bonds.

'I still don't understand,' he said.

_Child, that is the way things should be. But with a difference; I shouldn't understand either._

She sighed. It was like a confrontation, them and her. She stood on one side of this convenient clearing, trying to be reasonable, while feeling unprotected and ill-at ease, while they stood on the other, the young one open, the older one verging on violence. She wondered idly where the dragon might be.

'Where is Brom?'

'Why are you here?'

An impasse. Lovely.

Silence.

Fabiola spread her hands.

'Look. I can't _make _you believe me, but I've done all I can! I've showed you the bloody tattoos – what do you want me to do? Do you want me to describe the _pain_? How at eleven years old, I lay sobbing with the pain of ink carved … _branded _ into my hands, not understanding why? Do you want me to tell you how it felt like holding hot irons? No? Do you want me to tell you how much I lost, purely for the crime of my youth? My _blood_? How, at three I was already an orphan and ward of the Varden, and that alone is why I was taken advantage of? Do you?'

Her eyes flashed angrily, and he frowned.

'Dead,' he said.

She stuttered for a moment, blinking in confusion.

'What?'

'He's dead. Brom. Dead.'

She gaped for a moment, and afterwards, Eragon described it as if something had snapped in her at that moment. He didn't see her stand tall again for a long time.

She slumped to the ground, clutching her head.

_No way. No – way._

_Brom, last of the dragon Riders … last of everything. The end of everything …_

_  
Brom. Dead._

_Your last chance for survival. Gone. Dead._

_SWEET GODS ABOVE AND BELOW, HOW DO I KEEP YOU ALIVE NOW??_

If Fabiola had been a few months younger, still in Teirm, or just plain not so starving hungry and tired, she would have hurled something at a wall, and started shrieking. She probably would have caused some pretty remarkable damage, really. Maybe broken a few things, maybe irreparably. Maybe.

That was then. This was now.

She whispered instead.

'Please. Please tell me this is some sick, badly considered joke. Please.'

The boy shook his head slowly, and knelt down. She stared into his eyes, and took a moment to compose herself.

'He's – dead.'

The boy nodded.

Fabiola exhaled, and ran a hand over her hair. She looked at him.

'How?'

Eragon - _if that was his name _– winced, but Fabiola wasn't feeling generous, and stared him down, ignoring his companion as much as she could.

'He – there was an attack. The Ra'zac – they … it …'

_The Ra'zac. That's just your luck, isn't it?_

'What? The _Ra'zac_? But they're … not real. Right? They're just stories?'

The boy's eyes were wondering and revolted. He shook his head again.

'No. No, they're real. They killed my uncle, burned down my house … and they got Brom too. They caught us after we left Dras Leona … they were going to take me to Galbatorix. I – they tried to kill me, but Murtagh,' he said, glancing back to the youth behind him, 'He saved us. But they stabbed Brom, and – and he died a few days ago.'

Fabiola nodded, looking haunted.

'When I was young, I heard stories of the Ra'zac. Demons of night time and nightmares. But they were just stories … horror stories, but never true to life … I'm sorry I wasn't here,' she said, steadily, holding his gaze.

'I wouldn't have been much help, but I might have been some.'

Eragon nodded, but hurt flashed into his expression.

'You owe an explanation,' he said, and she sighed.

'Yes. I know,' she sighed, standing up, as he hurried to follow suit.

'Why don't we have something to eat, and I can try to explain then. I – I don't really know where to start,' she confessed, and Eragon noticed the tired circles under her eyes. He nodded, and quickly they threw together a fire and meal in utter silence.

It was simmering over the fire, and they had assembled themselves around it, Eragon and the older one on one side, Fabiola on the other. She returned his searching gaze steadily, resigned.

'Well. What do you want to know?'

'Who are you?'

She sighed. 'Could you have picked a more complex question?'

She closed her eyes a moment, and shifted to get herself more comfortable.

'Alright, I'll do the best I can.'

She opened her eyes again.

'My name is Fabiola. I have been a ward of the Varden since I was a child. I left when I was eleven to "aid the newest dragon Rider".'

Fabiola laughed out loud, an out of control, wild sound.

'And that's a laugh on it's own! You would have been … what? Seven? Eight? Gods almighty, what a laugh.'

But he was frowning.

'I – I don't understand,' he said, at last. His companion was still carefully quiet.

'Look,' said Fabiola, 'it's like this. The dragon Riders were like gods, to this world. You've heard the stories, I have no doubt … for a short time, yes, there was peace, there was prosperity. Then things went wrong, because if Galbatorix and the annals of time taught us anything, it is that absolute power corrupts absolutely.'

She spread her gloved hands.

'Then they fell from grace. They _failed, _the worst dishonourof all. The only ones left scrambled for safety, to build hope … they called it the Varden.'

She smiled without mirth.

'There was hope … until Vrael succumbed. Then, they hid. Hope was lost. Until the egg was claimed again … paraded before children they wished to make warriors of, unyielding, slumbering egg …'

She was lost for a moment, before gazing at him.

'They made provisions for the future. Called us Warders. Told us it was an honour.'

An eyebrow quirked in her face.

'Don't get me wrong. I'm sure you're great, and all … but as you can see, I'm mildly unequipped to help you; let's be honest. I have a few advantages, but just don't expect too much. You can expect this much, however,' she said, sighing shakily, and clasping her hands.

'I _will_ follow you, Eragon. Not out of loyalty; not yet anyway. But out of obligation. Brom, ironically enough, is the only one who could free me from my oaths. I am your protector, now. And believe me, when I say that, I mean it. As in, throwing myself in front of knives for you. Drinking poisoned wine, for you. Anything, for you. Not out of choice; understand that. But that's my lot in life. Please, accept it. _I_ had to.'

And she was silent. Eragon nodded and closed his eyes, before opening them.

'Saphira comes,' he breathed, and Fabiola could tell from the tone of his voice he spoke of a revered beauty.

The dragon was gigantic, magnificent. Terrible. Something absolutely horrifying about seeing it right there, ready and real. It came crashing down on her how real the whole situation was. Real and happening. There was nothing she could do to stop it now. There would be war, and death, and somehow she was in the middle of it.

The dragon peered down at her, and she floundered in the azure gaze. She forced herself to look, and discovered a strangely feminine beauty in her narrow snout, deep-set eyes and feline agility. The dragon suddenly snorted, and pulled away. Eragon's expression flicked in alarm, before settling again into a cautious mask.

'She senses something different about you,' he told Fabiola, whose eye-brows quirked disbelievingly.

'We don't understand.'

Fabiola's eyes darted to the side, but she didn't say anything.

'But she trusts you,' he said, slowly, and she looked up.

'Wise,' she muttered, 'and yet, unwise. Look, you can trust me absolutely to do everything I can for you. But that is such a little amount, it'll be a miracle …' she trailed off.

'But why? Why did the Varden make an entire troop swear to protect me? And how?' He sounded frustrated, trying futilely to wrap his head around the idea.

She tilted her head a little, and parted her lips slightly, before biting it closed.

'Look,' she said, kindly, 'the sooner you realise this, the easier things will be – the world is a big, scary place, full of dominions of power and ruthlessness. People in power will do anything to get you on their side. What they believe is the right side.'

'What do _you _believe?' the boy challenged craftily, and she tensed automatically, but smiled.

'I believe in many things, kid. True love. Fairy folk. Compassion. Maybe religion, if I'm feeling generous. And trying to keep my heart off my sleeve,' she said, standing up. He frowned, but looked up at her.

'You will come with us.'

It was a statement, but she nodded.

'I'm not that bad, I promise,' she said, as Eragon nodded and turned to look into Saphira's eyes, speaking to her with his mind. Unwillingly, Fabiola flicked a glance to the gaze she could feel scorching her face, and was surprised to find it less hostile.

'I promise,' she repeated, quieter, so Eragon wouldn't notice. The man nodded, and she ducked her glance, managing to avoid blushing like a fool.

'Can you lead us to the Varden?' Eragon asked, suddenly, taking Fabiola by surprise. She shook her head regretfully.

'I was young when I left. Very young; we need to travel north-east, but that's as much as I can tell you.'

'Oh.' Eragon sounded disappointed. Alarm flared in Fabiola.

'Wait, did Brom give you any instructions? Was he the one leading you? Because I can't really help you there …'

'We are travelling to Gil'ead to find a man named Dormnad. He can lead us to them.'

'Oh … alright. Sounds like a plan.'

Fabiola nodded, and clasped her hands, feeling redundant, as the three sat in silence, trying to cope with a situation far beyond any measure of normality.

xXx

**A/N: Okay, guys! Hope you like this one! Daphne unfortunately can't beta any longer, but I may have someone else lined up. Maybe. Hopefully ... well, updates might be a little more frequent. Maybe ...**

**PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks to everyone who has, 'specially Annie! Love you! xxx  
**


	7. Chapter 6

_We were strangers  
Starting out on a journey  
Never dreaming  
What we'd have to go through …_

_- __Richard Marx and Donna Lewis - At the Beginning_

~Chapter Six~

~New Dawn~

_A dark room. A distracting symphony scratching unease into the air. And a table, piled with a sumptuous feast. _

_Her brothers sat at a table, but both were still, and silent. Brinley sat at the head of the dining table, little Brinley, with Zachary to his right. Fabiola called to them, but neither looked up. She crossed the hall and spoke again, but again, neither answered. As soon as she touched Brinley on the shoulder, he looked up, and sorrow was etched into every line of his young face._

'_It's the end of the world, Fab,' he said, and smiled sadly. Zachary stared into space, and the music stopped. Suddenly, the only sound in the world was a child's crying beginning in another room._

oOo

Fabiola gasped awake in the pre-dawn light. She took a moment to calm her pounding heart, and try to figure out why on Alagaesia she should be graced with such a worrying dream. It was one of the oddest dreams she had ever had. She shook it off, as she pushed herself to her elbows, trying to shake off her unease. The camp was still quiet, the gigantic blue dragon sheltering the boy like a mother, and of the other one (_Murtagh, _she thought grudgingly) nothing could be seen but a roll of blankets and a clump of black hair.

Fabiola struggled to her feet as silently as possible, and ran a hand through the snarls in her hair. Today would be important, she realised, and she wanted to look presentable.

There hadn't been much conversation last night after Eragon had proclaimed he would let her stay, like the gracious princeling he was. _Murtagh _hadn't said anything, she thought as she shuddered through the freezing water of the nearby stream, feeling self-conscious. She prayed to whatever deities might be listening to keep both boys away for at least a half hour.

The water was like ice, but in a way, welcome. It was nice to be clean again, and be able to brush her hair out. As she fought the tangles from it atop a rock in the sunlight, she let her mind wander over the events of yesterday, as she tried to clear her mind into order.

The bloody horse had been difficult to mount, but not impossible. And the silence had been beyond uncomfortable, but she had dealt with it, admirably, she thought. And now, there was only the darkly stretching future to contend with.

It was the first hour after dawn by this point, and she knew the camp would be awake. She stalked towards the break in the trees, feeling oddly hesitant, before realising what the trigger for the feeling was.

She was camping with boys after all. And she couldn't repress all of the instincts born into her from years being mildly civilized. She squinted as she stumbled forward, in a laughable attempt to preserve the innocence of her eyes, whilst humming a disjointed melody and stepping on some large loudly cracking branches.

She knew she was being inherently foolish, but still felt like she must keep up appearances. At one point in her life, she had been a "lady of class".

Sort of.

Eragon looked up as she entered the clearing. A small fire was burning and he was boiling something over it. She smiled hesitantly at him, wondering if this would be suitable behaviour, relieved when he half-smiled in return. But his face twitched slightly as he leaned forward, and as Fabiola approached the fire, she noticed he had dark circles under his eyes and there was a healing cut on his cheek.

'Are you alright?' she asked him concernedly.

'I … have a few broken ribs,' he said, smiling sheepishly. Fabiola made a noise of distress.

'Oh, no! How did you get those?'

'Um … Ra'zac?'

'Oh. Right. Sorry. It's been a while since I was on the run. It could take a bit for the logic to kick in properly.'

She sighed, and looked back up at him, her dark eyes frank.

'I'm sorry. I promise, I'll get better.'

He shook his head, waving it away.

'Don't worry about it. I just didn't sleep very well, but Murtagh reckons they should be healed in a few more weeks.'

_Murtagh, eh? _a voice piped up bitterly in the back of her head. _So he's a healer now, too, is he? Hmm …_

'When were you attacked?'

'About a week ago, I think …'

Fabiola sighed, and nodded.

'In fact, I'm just about ready to change the bandage …' he hedged, and Fabiola stood back.

'Fine. I want a look.'

Eragon blushed (Fabiola found that a little amusing) and tugged off his tunic. His fingers, though fumbling managed to untie the bandage, and he exposed a blotchy side. She managed to hold in her gasp with difficulty and remain blank. It was an effort, but she decided he would have preferred silence to hysterical screams.

It also might have worried the other one a little …

'It's … pretty nasty,' she managed at last, disguising very well the flashback she was having.

oOo

'_Brinley! What did you do??'_

_His little face quivered._

'_I f-fell,' he whispered, his bottom lip trembling. He was heavy, but Fabiola hardly felt this as she lifted him in her own young arms to tote him off to the healers and have them frown and hem and hah over him. _

_Brinley. Angel face, sweet eyed, joker, trickster, child … little Brin, apple of his mother's eye …_

oOo

'Fabiola?'

'Yes. Sorry. You know, my little brother broke his rib once … 'Course he was only a young little thing. Kicked up one hell of a fuss, though …'

She met his confused eye.

'You're doing well. Healing up fine. So long as you don't overexert yourself, you'll be fine.

'I thought you were a tailor.'

The remark was sudden and unexpected, especially as it came from Murtagh, and she hadn't realised he had entered the clearing. She jumped, and Eragon laughed quietly. Fabiola smiled awkwardly, as she turned around to address him.

'That's true. But you learn the oddest things in a shop with twenty other women. One practised as a nurse in her free time … nice woman. But you got all sorts. Pirates, gypsies … merchants wives, travellers … quite an odd bunch we were. I was just another in the mix – but of course, to them I was just an ordinary young seamstress, trying to scrape a half-way decent living in the slums … But they shared stories, and I listened. You can learn a lot from people.'

Fabiola smirked.

'I also had a hell-raiser for a brother. Mostly returned to me in broken condition, and guess who had to pull him off to the healers? Yep. They tried their best to inspire and interest of healing in me, but it wasn't my thing. Nice of them, though,' she mused.

She stood up, and turned back to Murtagh, who was holding the limp bodies of two rabbits.

'Breakfast,' he answered her enquiring gaze, allowing himself a brief smile.

'Fine, but you skin them, I'll cook them,' Fabiola said, casting an apprehensive look at the bodies.

'No fan of blood?' Murtagh wondered aloud, as he took out his knife, and knelt over a smooth rock to be used as a work-surface. Fabiola shuddered.

'Blood, I can deal with, but ripping the fur off a little rabbit … ugh. Gives me the shivers. It's terrible, isn't it? I'm not very good at being on the run, really.'

Murtagh smiled again, and Fabiola took a moment to get a measure of him.

She had been in a whirl since yesterday, and her thoughts of this stranger were all confused. The warmth of being at his side as his "fiancé", the terror of his knife at her throat, and the tenseness of both their bodies riding his grey warhorse … his silent menace behind Eragon …

Suddenly this was all apparently over. He was no longer a threat. Apparently. And neither was she. Apparently.

She knew it was a lie between the two of them to keep Eragon safe. Or ignorant. She didn't know which. But they would talk about it soon, and Fabiola felt a little nervous …

He was tall, taller than Eragon, and dark. Quite handsome too, but Fabiola was too wary to take much interest at the moment. Though a terrible judge of age, she guessed him to be older than she was, though likely not by too much. He was dressed in dark colours, with occasional glints of silver heralding his impressive array of weaponry, stretching from the dagger jammed into his boot, to the silver sword just peeping from under his black cloak. His bow was lying next to a log, and his quiver was strapped across his cloak.

'Did you know Brom well?'

The question was sudden, and came from Eragon, interrupting the flow of her thoughts. Fabiola blinked up at him, before answering.

'No. I had heard of him, back in the Varden, but only snippets. I was never let in on such counsels as were held there … I was a little on the young side … and the stories were kept quiet enough … around me, anyway,' she said, slowly, feeling her oaths trying to force more words from her; words to expose her, words to reveal … she fought them, and went on.

'But I do know that they considered him a wise, good man, and though I only met him briefly, I believe as much myself.'

Saphira stared at Fabiola, as Eragon looked down, and seemed pleased.

'If you don't have a horse, how are you going to keep up with us?' Eragon furrowed his brow. Fabiola was dumb-struck for a moment.

'Ah, shhhh … ugar. Wh – how fast are you travelling?'

Eragon suddenly began coughing, his hand pressed to his rib. Fabiola rubbed his back in a motherly fashion, and looked expectantly to Murtagh, who took a moment to answer.

'Not fast. Just a walk.'

'Oh.'

How depressing. Damn, these boots might have been made for walking, but the body supported by those boots was weak, easily tired and really not a fan of physical challenge.

'I'll just have to walk beside you for a bit then.'

She could hear the difference in her voice herself.

'Don't be silly,' Eragon said, stretching hesitantly, seeming pleased when nothing tore.

'I'm taking Brom's horse. You can have Cadoc.'

'Oh. Okay. Sounds good!'

She left to fill a cooking pot with water from the nearby stream, and by the time she returned, and rabbits were laid neatly butchered on the surface waiting for her, and Murtagh had disappeared to see to his horse, or something. Eragon was pulling a plant out of his saddle-bags, and Saphira was rustling her wings restlessly.

Fabiola popped the merry little corpses into the water, and shoved it onto the fire; Eragon tossed her a sprig of something, which she dumped in too, and then a sprig of something else. Soon, it was simmering away. She dumped the stew into bowls, and passed it to Eragon, without looking at him, trying to concentrate on not burning her fingers or the pot, and then held one out for Murtagh, who took it with a word of thanks too. She poured her own portion, and munched without much zeal.

But it wasn't too different from being at home, really. She had eaten in the kitchen of her landlady's house, normally, a matronly woman who chattered away to the girl as they usually cooked together, and Fabiola would eat with her, her young son, and until her older daughter had gotten married, her too. They cooked over a fire too, scant as it was when rent was lean and there was no money to buy fuel. Sometimes, Fabiola would take a meal in the local tavern when they needed a hand on the bar, or when she would be asked to do waitress work, as much as she detested such occasions. But the banter around the fire late at night was always fun.

How had her life changed so drastically in such a short space of time? Fabiola briefly wondered what life would be like if she had a normal life, and family. It was an odd thought, but not entirely new. She had spent long hours as a lonely child in the Varden, as her older brother trained and her younger one was sleeping, or healing, or hell-raising imaging her ideal family. A strong, kind father, who smiled like her young tutor Arion, who was tall and strong enough to hoist her onto his shoulders like Jörmundur in a good mood, and who could be counted on to always be there for her. A pretty mother, with a gentle smile like Ambry, with shiny hair like the elf girl who came and moved like a dancer through the streets, the most beautiful thing Fabiola had ever seen, and a mother who sang her songs and lullabies. A mother. _Her _mother.

She had been a different child to the others, grave and serious, with her big wondering eyes. Others found her a little unsettling; with the eyes that watched and understood; too much like a shadow from ages past, with all the innocence and youth of a babe. She didn't fit anywhere, a child of the Varden, a noble in all technicality, growing up on the bounty of the Varden, the natural order of the world reversed completely. Had things been different … how different things would have been.

She had never had a place. Maybe this was it. Death in the protection of the future, because it could only end in death for her. Ironic, true, but wasn't that life?

Her life, anyway.

'Not a bad day for the ride,' Eragon remarked absently, looking into the horizon. Fabiola agreed nervously.

The time came to leave the clearing. The fire was doused, bags packed, general area cleared, and little vestige of their visit was visible. The boys mounted their respective horses with surety, though Murtagh watched Eragon hawk-like as he struggled on before climbing up himself. Fabiola couldn't help but marvel at his grace, before clambering up herself, and blushing at how awkward she must look. The useless bow sat awkwardly across her back, making for an uncomfortable ride. She sighed, and patted the horse's head as she sat on the leather saddle. He snorted, and seemed genial enough. More so than her poor crabby mare. But having little experience of horses, and only her own methods of horse-riding, she hoped she wouldn't hinder Eragon and Murtagh.

She needn't have worried. They took a slow pace to avoid causing Eragon any extra pain. Their path was wide enough to allow the three to travel abreast. Eragon coughed, and winced, clutching his side, but didn't say anything. He and Murtagh continued a conversation about hunting that they had begun earlier in the clearing. Fabiola smiled to herself.

_Boys, _she thought fondly, and began digesting all that she had heard as she rode uncomfortably on.

xXx

**A/N: Hello, hello and welcome to another _gripping _instance of Fabiola's life. Hmm. I'm sorry it's so boring, I'll try to pick up the pace. This isn't beta'd either, but my lovely new beta who shall henceforth be refered to as Dangela because I can't remember her username -shockhorror- will get around to it, becasue she's lovely. Alright? ENJOY! REVIEW! MWA! xxx - Wraithlike**


	8. Chapter 7

_I will find my way  
I can go the distance  
I'll be there someday  
If I can be strong ..._

_- I Can Go The Distance - Hercules_

~Chapter Seven~

~Thaw~

She hadn't learned to horse-ride in the Varden. Not that many horses to spare, really. None for the pointless tuition of a little girl. She had come out of the Varden with eyes wide open to a world completely foreign to her. A world where there were birds. Birds! Little winged things cutting through the sky, whistling along the breeze. Blues and browns and flashes of red. With songs! Melodies pouring from their tiny chests. The sweetest sound she had ever heard.

She was picking it up from the boy beside her. He was comfortable in the saddle, wearing a somewhat dozy expression; his eyes slightly unfocused. She wondered if that happened when he spoke to his dragon. _Saphira_.

She rocked with the horse, trying to relax into a rhythm. But perhaps she was a little too nervous yet for that. She was all wrapped up in the cloak she had brought from that settlement , but her fingers were still frozen. Little pin pricks of cold ignited every few seconds, and it took a couple of moments to realise that there was a pattering of rain. She tilted her head back, and didn't try to quell her grin.

oOo

They held watches. It wasn't something Fabiola was excellent at; truth be told. She was exhausted, all of the time. The travel wore her down like a horseshoe on an old nag. Her hands were small and not the most adept at gripping reigns. Her legs were long and thin, not muscled for horse-riding. Her skin was pale and papery, out of place in the great outdoors. She knew she was always out of place, but it was more noticeable here. In the Varden, she was bound with fellow travellers, fellow outcasts. In Teirm, all sorts wandered the streets. Here she was, two boys, hardly a selection to dilute her difference. A silent barrier between them all, with unspoken words – _you don't belong._

She tried her best to keep watch.

She didn't know what she was looking for – movement? Attack? Wild animals? Bandits? She didn't know. She crouched, stock still, staring around the clearing, her heart leaping into her throat at every minor sound. The instant she was relieved, she was utterly at her ease. It didn't make sense; surely she should always be on guard. But it simply wasn't the case. Perhaps it was merely the gargantuan responsibility of Eragon's life which electrified her. Perhaps it was her oaths. She didn't know.

She had to learn an awful lot by deduction. It had been something she was good at; always. Staring. Learning. Being quiet. The silence had deserted her in Teirm as she had needed it too. She had to fit in; to fade out. People weren't quiet. Silence only made her different and that was not something she could afford to be. She shrouded herself in words, a wrap of invisibility. It wasn't who she was. Fabiola of Teirm was a part she had played passing well. Fabiola of Teirm was very different to the Fabiola of the Varden. Fabiola of Teirm had cultivated different skills – a benign clumsiness. A quick wit. A sarcastic comment. An easy smile. All of these things she had adapted from the people around her, but it was only a part, even if she had absorbed some it into herself. Even if she had believed it herself.

As the days wore on, she could feel a settling of her character. A silence steeling over herself, a different way of holding herself. She wasn't Fabiola of the Varden, yet. She wasn't sure who that would be, really. She had a feeling it would be more noble than she wished.

The camp was silent in the middle of the night when she was looking out for danger. She shivered as a breeze laced itself through the trees. A massive dragon was sleeping yards away from Fabiola, but this didn't calm any fear she had. She took a cursory glance around her companions. Eragon, invisible beneath his dragon's mighty wing. Saphira, sleeping, her massive head curled elegantly. Murtagh, next on watch, absolutely stock still under his blankets. She shivered again, and stood up fluidly, without a whisper of noise. She was pleased that her agility was returning, in dribs and drabs, she noted dryly, as she tripped over a root. She moved into the trees, her heart beating fiercely, and circled the camp carefully. She sang softly under her breath; a song she remembered from her childhood. One she always sang when afraid.

'Hush, baby mine … hush, hush, my darling … the seas toss and twirl, but you are safe on board … Hush baby mine; hush, hush my darling … child of sea and storm, we will walk a lonely road together …'

oOo

Eragon and Murtagh talked a lot together. As friends. As equals. It wasn't that Fabiola was shy, but she was in a different position than they were. She was not a friend, or companion. In many ways she was a servant. Not that they treated her in any way disrespectfully, but she had a natural reserve which held her back from forcing into their conversations. _Better be invited and gain their respect_, she told herself serenely.

The questions came, as she knew they would.

'Did you always live in the Varden, Fabiola?'

The question came from Eragon. She twisted in the saddle to throw him a careless, amused glance.

'Yes, always. All of my life. Until I moved to Teirm, of course.'

'Of course. And when did you move to Teirm?'

The youth's brown eyes were glittering curiously. He was an awkward age; not quite man, not quite boy, with vestiges of stubble and a face of baby fat. She felt a swell of fondness for him, recognising that wish for a story, and acquiesced without a murmur, though she was sure she'd told the story before.

'I came with Ambry, a nurse. My appointed guardian. We travelled with a caravan to Teirm. A caravan of soldiers and merchants and workers. It was a merry crew,' she remembered, contentedly. The campfires. The laughter. If she had stayed in the Varden perhaps she would have been one of those women leaping the fires and spinning in dance, long skirts swinging, feet bare. Reckless. Wild. _Glorious._

'I was just a little girl. Eleven. Twelve?' She shrugged. 'Well, I look about the same, so I doubt it makes a difference,' she commented wryly, raising a laugh from Eragon. Encouraged, she continued.

'I was supposed to work in the library, assisting the librarians. But when my guardian died … They … I – I wasn't welcome any longer.'

Without a guardian, what hope did she have? She was just another orphan girl; someone … _dependant. _Scholarly men weren't equipped to deal with her, they assumed. A girl, who would become a woman? Who would bleed and pout and nag? Surely she would have no place among learned men. There was no glamour on them of her heritage; it wasn't something which had been mentioned. No doubt it would have had swayed them at once – who didn't want a part of her heritage to claim? But even then – even all of those years ago – she understood what it was to be a child of a child of Vrael. She understood it marked her as different; more of an outcast than even her mongrel race marked her.

And so after a funeral and a week or so of going about her duties as silently and solemnly as ever, she had been told a new position had been found, with new Varden arrangements. She had been shunted to a dress shop; without cries, or protestation. No nonsense.

There, she had bled her fingers dry. There, she had learned what it was to be a woman in a man's world. She learned why she needed to carry a dagger. She learned what made a good man, and what didn't. What it was to be 'fond of a drink' and to be a flatterer. She learned to cover her hair to hide away, and to do away with the expensive kid gloves she had been gifted from the Varden and embrace the cheap, hacked fingerless ones. She understood how to hide her Varden marks and make herself invisible.

This she didn't reveal in full to Eragon, skirting around it, and giving a vague and amusing outline of events. Her ancestry wasn't something they needed to know, yet.

'What was it like to work in a bar?' he asked her eagerly.

'Hell on earth,' she answered honestly. He looked put out.

'Why?'

'Because you're surrounded by men, and they're all groping and griping and trying to pull the wool over your eyes with their payment or just seduce you outright,' she told him casually. A faint blush crept over his cheeks at the words, and she was stunned. He was a baby, this last hope for Alagaesia. A sweet-eyed little baby.

'Yeah … it was just a little bit difficult;' she censored carefully, with a candid smile.

He went on questioning her on this and that; things which interested him about her life, nothing too strenuous. In a way it was a relief to talk to someone about her life. What it had really been.

oOo

Eragon climbed onto the sapphire dragon and as one they leapt into the air.

Fabiola followed them, amazed. Her loose scarf slipped off her hair, settling around her shoulders. She hardly even noticed.

'You don't get used to it,' the dark haired boy assured her. She tore her eyes from the sight to meet his eyes and steady herself for their first true conversation. He met her gaze evenly, with guarded hazel eyes. A smile crept across her face and she glanced away.

'Yeah … I guessed as much,' she mused, wondering how safe conversation with this boy might be. She longed for a grown up conversation. She longed for insightful comments and cool headed logic, and she knew that he could provide it. He broke the barrier himself, with a quiet sigh.

'I suppose it's safe to say that we are both bound to Eragon, in different ways – he's without his teacher, his guide. I travel with him as I long for the same revenge as Eragon, and I have become fond of his companionship over these weeks. He makes good choices, and his life is certainly interesting. I know you are bound by honour, and fealty –'

'And oaths, don't forget about those.'

He bowed his head, hiding a smile. 'But of course. Oaths. What I mean to say is that we are both intertwined with Eragon's fate. I –'

He shifted and turned to look at her again, his eyes narrowing slightly in the glare of the sun.

'I don't trust easily, or like to be pried at. But I admit that I took you to be untrustworthy, in the beginning. It is my wont,' he admitted, stiffly. She wondered if that was how he displayed 'abashed'.

'I believe now that I judged hastily. You – you have proven wise of words and actions. I hope we may become as good companions as myself and Eragon.'

His face was open, momentarily, and very handsome. She allowed a grin to settle on her face, lighting her eyes, and bowing her head respectfully.

'Thank you, Murtagh. Your words hearten me greatly. I do hope that may come to pass. I – I did leave the only friends I have back in Teirm.'

'Barmaids and scoundrels?' he offered drolly. She glanced sharply, ready to defend her friends, and realised it was a challenge.

'Only the finest for me, of course,' she preened. 'Ladies of class should always cohort with their own kind,' she announced primly, shifting uncomfortably on her horse.

'Ladies of class should at least be able to ride a horse,' he commented, wryly, perfectly at ease on his steady, grey animal. She threw a jealous glance at him.

'I may be slightly behind on the etiquette of horse-riding, but be assured I can sew the straightest seam the world has ever seen,' she retorted. He chuckled, softly.

'Try leaning back a little,' he suggested, after a quick inspection of the girl. She quickly modified her posture.

'It's more comfortable, and less dangerous. That's a placid animal, but if he bucks, you'd be thrown off at once. And look ahead – don't look down. He goes where you want him to go, but if you're looking at the ground, he's feeling confused.'

She stared straight ahead, bold upright. He suppressed a grin.

'The most important rule is this, though,' he said, lingering a moment, as she glanced over, poker-straight.

'What?' she forced out through her teeth, barely moving. He raised an eyebrow.

'Relax. You're scaring him.'

Her shoulders shifted under the cloak, and she frowned.

'This is difficult,' she commented.

'Most people train for years,' he reminded her. Her frown deepened.

'I guess I don't have years,' she stated, glancing over at him. He needed to face front to reply; the words having touched him in some deep and inexplicable way.

'No,' he said, 'I suppose you don't.'

xXx

**A/N: I have nothing to say. No apologies or explanation to give except inspiration struck and suddenly this glorious ending hit me like a bolt from the blue. ;) To my readers, reviewers - you are magical, mystical people and I hope you enjoy. ;)**

**- Wraithy xxx**


	9. Chapter 8

_Seems that I have been held_  
_In some dreaming state_  
_I twist in the waking world_  
_Never quite awake …_  
_No kiss, no gentle words could wake me from this slumber_  
_Until I realised that it was you who held me under …  
- Blinding - Florence and the Machine_

~Chapter Eight~

~Shifting~

Eragon watched her with a glimmer of amusement.

_She's a little odd, isn't she?_ Saphira offered. Eragon agreed silently. She was humming gently to herself as she moved about the clearing, and he had to admit she cut a pretty figure, even in her rough travelling clothes.

Maybe that was why. She was different, that was more than certain. And there was something intriguing about that to Eragon, who had known a sheltered life, as he realised. There were a lot of things he'd like to ask her; and he knew she would be more forth-coming that Murtagh. He admired and respected Murtagh, but the girl seemed … warmer. He blushed, as he considered the double meaning, and Saphira laughed gently at him.

oOo

Hrothgar rested his august face in his thick, scarred hands.

Orik was young, by the standards of his people of stone. He hadn't seen the Riders in all of their conceit and glory; neither had he seen them fall from grace. He had never seen Vrael, last of their kings. He had never seen him; and so couldn't be unsettled by the young man kneeling before him.

Young Zachary, son of Arphenion, heir of Vrael.

His jaw was tight, and he was utterly still on bended knee, dark brown hair tinged with copper fluttering gently in the draft.

'My lord,' he said, decorously.

_Such a shame._

Hrothgar pitied the child greatly. A great weight seemed to rest on his unnaturally straight shoulders. He was a soldier through and through, disciplined to perfection, and though Hrothgar had seen many soldiers, this one seemed too young for his burden. A young man breaking under the weight of responsibility. The weight of sorrow …

'Congratulations, Vraelsson. Your appointment is truly a cause for celebration.'

They thought he was insane for welcoming a child of Vrael into his halls. There was such bitterness in his people, such rage towards the Riders. Even if years had passed and all were dead, a smouldering hatred infused his halls still. He could look gravely at the boy before him and feel sorrow, but he knew he was alone in that.

'I thank you, your Highness.'

He hazarded raising his dark eyes to the king's shaded ones and there was not any indication of strife in them. They were carefully blank, giving nothing away. Unlike the bulging tendon in his neck.

'I asked you here today, Vraelsson, to give you something,' Hrothgar intoned, reaching to the table beside his throne. He drew a sword from it; a silver sword burnished and glimmering in the lantern light. The hilt was golden, with a scaly pattern etched onto the ornate hilt. Though heavy, Hrothgar did not struggle in drawing it upwards fluidly. Sparks from the gold shone in the boy's eye.

'This was Vrael's. Forged by our dwarf metalworkers by those loyal to him – understandably there is ill feeling now. The sword was transferred to our treasury.'

Hrothgar raised a shaggy eyebrow.

'Understand, Vraelsson. This was not his elven sword of slaying, but an offer of peace and protection, from the dwarven clans. I offer it now to you.'

The dwarf king extended the sword to rest the tip on the boy's right shoulder, as he dipped his eyes.

'I can do no more for your fractured family, boy,' the king said, in a kindly voice, and the boy looked up, a fire alight in the dark orbs all at once.

'But I can offer you this. Draw strength from it.'

He presented the sword and Zachary took it with a slight tremble.

'There is triumph in your line, even if we would forget it. Use it to protect those you love, Captain.'

Long after the boy had departed, Hrothgar stared at the doors he had left through, reminiscing on happier times, the ghosts of years past skittering across his too-long memory.

oOo

Fabiola's head was spinning with nightmares.

Blood, so much blood. And fear. Screaming, running. Cries of terror. She ran away with the crowds, their words not making sense. But suddenly, she was being pushing to a wall, pinned by some invisible force, and the thing they were screaming in horror of rose before her, with silent, heavy wing beats.

Eragon looked older, elfin, his face hard and pale, etched in lines of hatred. His armour gleamed cleanly, and something feral was alive in his eyes. He extended a blue sword towards her, but it all suddenly made every and no sense. He was staring into her eyes, and she heard his words in her mind.

_You protect a demon and will pay the demand. _

oOo

She woke with a gasp, and a stifled cry.

It was dark as pitch anywhere the moon didn't gleam. A small sound of moving fabric, and Murtagh turned from the stone he was sitting on, moonlight illuminating his pale face. He had thought it was a dream of some kind. She'd been tossing and turning for a few minutes now. But it wasn't his place to interfere.

She sat up jerkily, pulling the blankets over her knees, staring at the ground.

'Are you alright?' Murtagh asked, in a quiet, curiously detached voice, even to his own ears. She nodded, letting a breeze wipe away the traces of blood from her dreams. He knew the feeling well. Eragon was snoring softly, wrapped with his dragon, both harmless in sleep. Fabiola pulled her blankets with her as she crawled a little closer to him. He felt sure he was purposefully radiating the waves of unease.

'Really, really vivid dream.'

She pulled the blankets around her shoulder, resting her chin on her knees, looking like a little lost child. He quickly scanned the forest over her shoulder, as she wiped a hand over her clammy forehead.

'It was frightening,' she told him frankly. He stayed quiet. What did she want him to say?

That he had them, too?

'There was blood … and confusion – and shouting and war …'

She frowned, with the self conscious air of someone who didn't share often.

'Is that the land I'm headed for? Will that be what awaits me in the future?'

A gulf stretched between the four outsiders and the rest of the world. Murtagh understood this; but also that a gulf stretched between three of the four outsiders. He wondered briefly about the girl recounting her night terrors to him. Why had her guardians let her out into the scary world? Was she wealthy? Betrothed? Educated? Eldest? Youngest?

She flipped a few errant strands of her long, dark hair off her face and the first question struck him again. Why was she here? Was she that disposable? Was this what the Varden did with their children?

He severed the compassion which swelled in his chest. He was not going to the Varden. They would travel together as long as they needed and then he would go on with his own journey, as ever – alone.

She would go home, where she belonged. And where worrisome dreams would only be a distant memory.

'They come from being on the move – your first journey in a long time, is it not?' he suggested, keeping his voice light.

Her eyes were wide and full of some kind of sadness when he met them.

She had been curled up and back asleep for about an hour when Murtagh woke Eragon for his shift. Murtagh laid his head down and shut his eyes, trying to surrender to sleep. An uncomfortable thought nudged him. If he had been more like Eragon, he would have offered to sit up with her. He might have shared a tale. If he had known her better; offered to lie beside her until the breath of nightmares had stopped prickling her neck.

It's the kind of thing Eragon, overfamiliar, dense, kind-hearted Eragon would do. Could do.

The thought rankled.

oOo

Gil'ead didn't seem to take an awfully long time to reach – they had been almost halfway there before Fabiola caught up. The boys had been sparring gleefully in the evenings, as if they weren't tired enough already. Murtagh cleared his throat, far before the town came into view.

'I will help you find your guide, Eragon, and take my leave.'

Eragon scrutinized Murtagh, and Fabiola knew he was looking for something to say which would entice him to stay. But Murtagh kept his eyes straight ahead, and she wanted desperately to tell Eragon to hold his tongue, not to speak the words which would disappoint him so much. Saphira made a soft sound, and Eragon turned his attention back to the road, the corners of his mouth downcast.

'Saphira wonders if you will know our guide, Fabiola,' he asked instead. She strained to pay attention.

'Dormnad, was it not?' she said, politely, and shook her head. 'Not that I know of.'

'I thought he might be another Warder.'

She suppressed her smile.

'No, I don't think so. Though I can hardly know; I was – rather young. However, it is possible. Those chosen were posted far and wide through this Empire.'

'What does it take to be a Warder?' he asked, innocently. The smells and sounds intensified around her. Dust from the road flew into her eyes; warmth from the horse rose in musty waves, a sun shone down and blinded her. There was no answer she wanted to give, and she was not permitted to lie to the next Rider.

'A crime of blood,' she answered slowly, words pulled from her when she hesitated. She winced, biting her lip so fiercely that she tasted blood. But it was okay. They hadn't noticed. Though it had been worse that time. Much worse.

She could sense his curiosity, the frown sundering the smooth plain of his sweet forehead. Humanity had been bled into her by the kindness of strangers in Teirm. Icy as she wished she could be there was a strangely maternal feeling blooming in her chest when the child with the dragon looking so puzzled. Would the Varden steal every piece of herself from her on this quest?

'Family connections,' she managed, without pain, and stared blankly down at her horse's saddle.

'It always seems to have something to do who married who, whose blood is thickest in your veins. Who your father was.'

If her horse hadn't whinnied, and shook his head, she wouldn't even have glanced at Murtagh.

The clenched jaw, the tendons straining in his hands as he gripped the reins - those were her first clues. But she didn't stare. Presumably this was still to do with Gil'ead.

'Seems kind of unfair,' Eragon reasoned, with all of the naivety born of a just upbringing. Fabiola pitited him.

'That's life, my dear,' she told him, offhanded, and scanned the horizon.

Her eyes caught things before most people did, and this was no exception.

'I see a town on the horizon,' she said, and despite the protestations of the others, in a few hours it was plain to them too.

'I'll go ahead and alert your guide, Eragon,' Murtagh said, still tense from earlier, arranging his saddle with unnecessary precision. Fabiola didn't comment on it. 'You should stay hidden here.'

There was a brief argument, but Murtagh was insistent. Fabiola, cannier than Eragon realised he wished for the chance to be alone, but for some reason couldn't resist the urge to clear her throat and offer herself as a companion.

'Perhaps – you would seem more harmless in the company of a female.'

His look was politely considerate, but she could see in his eyes what he saw, looking at her. A girl dressed in boyish clothes, carrying boyish weapons, with pale, slightly inhuman face. She was clearly incapable of looking like a lady. It would have hurt more if she hadn't known it to be true. A rat in everyone's eyes, but a proud one at that.

'Or perhaps not,' she suggested herself, smiling briefly to show she had taken no offence. She turned away, missing whatever look he would have thrown at her.

'Save me something to eat,' were his last words to the duo and Saphira, before he galloped away from the setting sun, into darkness.

xXx

**A/N: Aaaaahhh it just keeps jumping onwards! Aren't you excited? There'll be beatings next, if you're interested. What would ye all like to see happen? :O**

** - Wraithy xxx**


	10. Chapter 9

_I have been one acquainted with the night.  
I have walked out in rain - back in rain.  
I have outwalked the furthest city light._

_I have been one acquainted with the night.  
__- Acquainted with the Night - Robert Frost_

~Chapter Nine~

~Crumbling~

They talked about fishing until Murtagh got back.

Fabiola couldn't quite believe it herself, but then again, boys will be boys, she supposed. Fishing, and the ports of Teirm. Eragon, she imagined, had harboured the wish that every farm boy and houseboy and young lord or noble did – to take the seas, and shrug off every responsibility he would grow up to have and pile it all on his family's doorstep. Tasting the tang of salt and freedom in the air, hear the strong shouts of orders and the firm slap of waves on wooden hulls.

'I was going to take a ship to Teirm from Surda,' she told Eragon, conversationally, as she prodded a dying part of the fire. 'Go on one of those smaller merchant ships. I don't remember why we couldn't,' she said, not entirely truthfully. But it was okay; it hadn't been a direct question, so it didn't count. She could remember fairly well. She wasn't meant for the sea. Her polluted blood couldn't stand the rocking of the hull; she broke into a sweat when the thought crossed her mind – one fevered night below the cabin, vomiting incessantly to the panic of Ambry and the distress of the ship's crew. Among the Varden, she was a name, if not a real person. To have it writ down that Fabiola, daughter of Arphenion, son of Vrael had died on their ship of a sickness of the sea was inconceivable. They made port after one night and she was released onto land. She had rarely had the healthy colour of other children, ensconced as she had been in the prison of Tronjheim. A few days on the solid ground, though, her nurse noticed something miraculous. She became alive in the wind and sun. Rain delighted her. She chased breezes and the solemn eyes sparkled with something akin to true youth. There was a rosy tint to her cheeks.

'I liked Teirm. I would have liked to stay there,' Eragon said, wistfully, picking up a stick to prod the fire, like her.

'It's a nice place,' she agreed, her voice becoming eager. 'Got some very kind people there, and some beautiful buildings. Did you see the library?'

Eragon shook his head. 'I thought I'd been all over the town … but I never saw it.'

'I suppose it's easy to miss,' she said, suddenly dismissive. 'All underground and hidden away. Gem of the city, though.'

'Did you go there often?'

'N- not as often as I would have liked,' she said, carefully.

'There was a girl in the sewing workshop who had a lover there, though,' she grinned. 'I was – well. Something of an errand girl, I suppose. When I wasn't doing all of the tedious work no one else wanted to do, I was running through that town delivering messages, receipts, badgering for money, collecting supplies – exchanging love letters,' she shook her head as if at the folly of youth.

'It sounds exciting,' Eragon smiled, looking as though he wouldn't have minded a stint himself. She was about to nay say it all and make him understand what a pain it had been, but something in his face made her stop, and reconsider.

'I suppose it was – maybe not as a job though. Maybe for a day or two it would have been novel, but it was tiring. Not a huge town but running from Gerod to Izza and back to Petrona before noon wasn't a piece of cake.'

'Just because you were the youngest?'

'Oh, I wasn't the youngest. But I was the fastest. And the most independent. The most trouble, I suppose,' she said, ruefully, rubbing her neck. Eragon couldn't help but trace the sharp lines of her body from elbow to neck; clean and neat in the firelight.

'Why were you troublesome?'

'Do you ever do anything except ask questions? The words blurted out in exasperation, but she didn't wish she had recalled them. He grinned sheepishly.

'Brom seemed to think not.'

'I think he was a far wiser man than they give credit for,' she smiled, shaking her head.

The two were quiet for a moment. Fabiola was about to start talking about how yes, she had been incredibly troublesome, when Eragon's words slipped out almost against his will, it seemed.

'Did you know Brom?'

'Didn't I already tell you I didn't?' she answered, comfortably, though oaths screamed in her ears again, stronger than before, and she knew she wouldn't be able to deny them, again.

'Yes … but – I –'

She toyed for a moment with what to tell him, adjusting the boots a little too large for her, and tucking her brother's cloak straighter around her shoulder.

'No, I didn't,' she admitted at last. 'Though apparently he knew my father. Years ago, twenty or thirty or more.'

'Were they friends?'

'I don't know,' she told him, as softly as him. 'My father was a quiet man, they tell me. But then again, Brom was known for making unusual friends,' she said, the words tinged with just a drop of darkness. Both shivered as a wind blew, and Eragon scooted closer to Saphira, who was dozing beside him.

'I didn't know my father,' Eragon admitted, in almost a whisper, staring into the amber flames. The way he said it made her feel almost on edge. She didn't think this was common knowledge. Why did he trust her with it? Why did everyone trust her with their secrets?

'If it makes you feel any better,' she ventured, 'Neither did I.'

A tiny smile raised the corners of his mouth.

'My mother gave me to the keeping on my uncle, soon as I was born,' he whispered to her, as if he needed her to know. 'She was a rich lady, he said. Wore a net of pearls in her hair.'

There was an uncertain pride in his voice. She wanted to show him his pride was correct. She nodded firmly.

'Sounds like a high-class lady.'

'I don't know …' The boy trailed off, before meeting her eyes, the uncertainty more pronounced. 'She wouldn't tell anyone – even my uncle, who the father was. Who _my _father was.'

He was angrier now.

'It's unfair. I would like to know, if she did,' he said. And she understood. There was a huge stigma attached with not knowing the identity of your pater, even more so, she presumed, when you were a Rider into the bargain. Still though, she wanted to tell him, knowing wasn't that great, if there was a story involved. There was no fun in being someone's daughter if that someone was the son of someone who had failed the cause.

'It's a tricky situation,' Fabiola agreed reluctantly. She put herself in Eragon's noble mother's shoes for a moment.

'Still. Did you have a good life with your uncle?'

'Yes, I did. He raised me as a son, a brother to his own,' Eragon said, pride burning in his voice. She half-smiled.

'A door closed when your mother put you in care, but a window opened elsewhere. I'm sure she had a good reason for handing you over. A mother's love makes the best decisions,' she said, wisely, sounding a thousand years old. She smiled lopsidedly as she thought of it. Her own mother had had all of the best intentions, but they didn't last too long when you were dying of childbed fever and grief.

He smiled at her, she opened his mouth to ask a question when she and Saphira turned at the same time. A figure was racing from Gil'ead, bent so low over his horse, it was impossible to tell who or what he was. Eragon and Fabiola scrambled to their feet, and mounted steeds, ready to flee at once should the rider prove a foe.

oOo

It wasn't as if he wanted to impress upon them how frightening the situation was, but he had to make them understand this was no casual or childhood acquaintance.

He hated this city, and it was his first time there. Smoke flooded his nostrils, and the alleys were slimy with refuse, vibrating with shrieks. He subtly pulled his cloak tighter to better disguise his cloak better and hide his traitor's face. He shouldered neatly between two men and slipped down the crooked walls between two blocks of building. The alley widened and women washed, filthy children played among puddles. He was grateful he had denied Fabiola's request to come with him, as soon as the girls in the doorways began reaching out their almost skeletal figures and croon to him. He shook them roughly off. He had lived in Uru'baen for a while, after all. Cities were all the same. He had visited Dras Leona too, and it had been worse there. All the girls looked the same, gaunt and pale with big fishy eyes and not enough clothes. Rouged lips and rents in their skirts. Fabiola didn't need to see that. He had been right in his choice.

Though he would have liked the company.

'Help me,' groaned a girl, probably younger even than Eragon from her patch curled beside the wall. And he _did _feel pity for that one, with her sad eyes, tangled hair, bare feet and baby, cradled in her lap. Her face spoke volumes to him, it was achingly open with desperation. He knew – just knew – that she'd offer him anything for a scrap of bronze. He pulled a coin from his pocket – half a silver sou and held it out to her.

'Where would I find Dormnad?'

She looked lost for a moment, and terrified.

'I don't know, sir,' she said, in a breathy voice, before turning her eyes to her sisters from their poses in the shadow.

'Maria, Goethe … Who's Dormnad?'

They exchanged hurried conversations before a redhead from across the street threw a hip in their direction.

'Isn't he that drunkard who lives over the Weeping Well?'

Murtagh glanced quickly between them, looking confused and pitifully young. He nodded his thanks and tried not to look back at the little girl and her child on the ground at his feet, even when she whispered, 'Thank you, sir …'

The Weeping Well was somehow just where everyone would expect a fellow who looked as suspicious as Murtagh did to spend all of his time. But in truth, he hated taverns. Beer was bitter, and when there were so many voices, how could you pick out the one death-threatening you? With that much movement, you'd need supersonic hearing to detect the whisper of fabric as someone moved to stab you in the heart … Those were the odds Murtagh had had to deal with. And that was that.

He had no idea who he was looking for. He shrunk within himself, a silent yowl of distress at the possibilities. The tavern was packed to the rafters. And really, what were the chances of the man being here? Would he not have gotten bored of waiting around here every night in case he should be called on? Murtagh slipped to the bar and gruffly ordered the local beer. He pulled the pint towards himself, content to nurse it until he was satisfied to go in for the verbal kill.

He presumed he'd be looking for a man something like himself; one alone and huddled over a drink, a wariness for life unspoken but understood in his orbs.

A hand slapped his back.

'You new here, lad? Looking for someone, eh?'

Murtagh drew himself up stiffly. The patronizing man had small, piggish eyes, and a fuzzy reddy-brown beard. He took a generous gulp of his beer and raised a beefy arm to swipe the foam from the coarse hair on his face. He blinked expectantly, and Murtagh resisted letting his lip twitch with displeasure. Surely he could see that Murtagh was one of those imposing men children the world over were warned not to upset? Why could everyone who mattered only see his father's face, and everyone else see nothing at all?

'No, thank you,' he replied frostily, but politely. The man raised an eyebrow disbelievingly.

'You sure, son? I don't mind putting a query about, if you need a hand.'

_Was he hoping for some monetary reward?_ Murtagh wondered idly. That was why he had been approached, was it not? _Ah. _He felt the hand twitch his cloak aside with the gentleness of a lover. A thief to his other side, accomplice of the friendly looking man offering his assistance. Murtagh thought that a man with a little more ale in him mightn't have even noticed, a man who hadn't always been on guard. The thief to his right was experienced, but not with Murtagh's type. They were a rare breed.

'Well, actually sir,' Murtagh began, casually, unnoticeably palming a knife from his belt, and sliding it to where it needed to be, 'There is one are of help I may require …'

'Yes?' answered the red-haired man, eagerly, his focus directed onto Murtagh intently. Murtagh snatched the hand with the grace and speed of a viper, sliding his knife to brush it gently, and shifting his cloak so that his hand and a half sword was clearly visible on his hip. The ginger man gasped, and blinked; _finally _seeing the cold fury in Murtagh's eyes. Trying not to make a scene or draw any more attention, he stood, twisting the arm neatly, fear pounding in his head. No tunnel vision affected Murtagh. His mind was an open plain, scanning for dangers and flickers of movement. The thief wasn't old, ferrety looking, with a twitching nose and pale, pale blue eyes like his father's had been. He gave another vicious twist for this, and the ferrety man squeaked.

'Both of you, leave. _Leave!_' he hissed, pushing the man away and stalking to the other side of the room, his heart pounding slowly, but frenetically. Yet another attempt on his life.

What would Eragon have done?

He focussed on the wood-grain and gouge marks on the table before him, sequestered as he was in a dank corner, and tried to be reasonable – after all, it was something he was good at. The two men had left, in a frightful hurry, as he'd expected. Where did he go from here?

For a moment, he felt a stab of grief over Tornac. His tutor; a tough, weathered, wiry man would have a thousand ideas, but only voice the wisest. Murtagh yearned for his measured pauses, for the silences in conversations when he would narrow his eyes and think quietly for what could seem an unutterably long time – in those days before Murtagh learned patience. Tornac would advise him in a low voice, shadowing him at his shoulder, but letting Murtagh lead the way – after all, it was Murtagh who was his master, in the formal sense of the word.

But Tornac was dead.

Murtagh twisted from the turn in his thoughts instead, thinking logically on what to do, and plotting how to execute his plan. Two hours later, far from his false lead, he was knocking on a door in a wealthier part of this town, feeling snobbishly more at home. (That was a lie, he was feeling as awkward as ever – there was nowhere Murtagh felt at home. But at least this area recalled clearly where and how he had been raised.)

A young woman answered, with corn-silk hair and eyes as blue as the sky. She cocked her head as she took him in, from his dark hair and broad shoulders to his boots and cloak. She was a pretty girl, and she knew it too, as she cocked a hip and twitched a beguiling smile; a pale and infinitely more wholesome echo of the girls in the alleys. But the connection was made in his mind; and Murtagh could only feel ill and uncomfortable. He looked past her.

'Be this the house of Dormnad?' he asked, adopting a more countrified tone than his distinctive city speech. The girl didn't look discouraged.

'Aye, Master ….?' She paused luxuriously, waiting for a name, as he remained stonily quiet. She wilted a little.

'Who should I tell him is asking?' she barked, crisply, folding her arms. He looked her full-whack in the eyes and said, 'Tell him it's one who would have him answer his call.'

She nodded and shut the door rudely, flouncing away in her pale blue gown. Murtagh wondered idly if she'd tell anyone or just leave him on the doorstep. He had to be honest, he thought, scuffing his feet against the cold, if there was one thing he hated, it was the complexity of the Varden situation. All of that messing about with code words and half truths and meaningful phrases – and of course, in Fabiola's case, those double tattoos. He despised it; all of it. It was as though they were playing at war.

The man who opened the door confirmed the suspicions that Murtagh had been cultivating since he had been directed away from the criminal heartland at the town's centre. He was an older man, grey where his hair had once been blonde; it seemed, with owlish blue eyes, paler even than his daughter's. Tall, thin, and dressed in a fine outfit which still spoke of humility, everything that needed to be said about him was said as he stood before Murtagh – with a baby boy on his hip.

xXx

**A/N: I hope this isn't too boring ... the beatings will be soon, I misjudged my timing. ;) Thanks to Restrained Freedom for the continuing lovely reviews - I'm starting to think you're the only one out there, love! D:**

**Please, intelligent life of the universe - gimme a sign!**

**- Wraithy **


	11. Chapter 10

_And my running feet could fly_  
_Each breath screaming_  
_"We are all too young to die" ..._  
_- Between Two Lungs - Florence and the Machine_

~Chapter Ten~

~Perception~

When she was a little girl, she would go to her mother's room and open drawers and cabinets and place diadems on her head. She would drape herself in pearls and diamonds and twirl about in skirts of silk and velvet, feeling like a princess. Her mother would occasionally find her, but never reprimand with angry words. She would laugh and pile more jewels on, offering different fabrics, explaining differences between them. You could say she was destined for the needle as much as Eragon was destined for the sword.

Her mother's wintery, pretty face was so intent on her that Fabiola could hardly help but feel important. She spread her long, slender arms – wrapped in what Fabiola could then identify as silk spun from silkworms of Ceris and smiled warmly at her little daughter.

'One day, this shall all be yours, Fabiole,' she told her, her voice seeming far off. 'One day, you will inherit the title of your bloodline, but not in shame; in glory. I will see to it. These all shall be yours, with pride.'

She smiled at her youngest child, and told her to go and play. While Fabiola wandered through her home collecting a doll and a cloth to create her tea party, Delia gathered silks and satins, gifts from her husbands homeland and replaced them carefully, her face serious and thoughtful. What use would those luxurious rags be to them when the cause floundered and died?

Would they clothe her daughter when she must take up the mantle of the beacon of the people? Would diamonds, like tears drip from a headpiece as she heralded the new world, married to the new leader of this free land? Would that be the role her daughter would take up for her noble line? There would be no battle glory for Fabiola; if they succeeded, she would be a daughter of the revolution. Zachary and Arphenion would fight. Delia, bound by the role her marriage had cast her in, would heal and tend though impatience burned in her heart and made her sweet ties to her family and home chafe and burn. She turned the key in the cabinet containing her wedding dress, the lock clicking satisfying shut.

oOo

The foolish man gave him a glass of wine and bade him sit closer to the fire. It wasn't cold out, but in his anxious movements and frequent glances, he seemed intent on being the perfect host. Murtagh was suspicious, of course. He didn't see in himself what Dormnad clearly saw; a tense, hard-jawed young man capable of taking on the world but one who wouldn't reject some common human kindness.

'Can I offer you anything else?' Dormnad pressed him. Murtagh sniffed his wine glass and set it aside carefully.

'No, thank you,' he said, breezily, leaning forward and catching his cloak on his shoulder.

'Shall I hang it up for you?' the man proposed, his hands already outstretched, and peering out of the window. 'There was a shower earlier,' he said aloud, almost to himself. Murtagh gazed up at the distracted, semi-fearful man and found it within himself to be civil.

'Thank you,' he replied graciously, standing gracefully and releasing the simple silver clasp. The man hung it reverently before the fire, bending to stoke it further. Murtagh settled back in the chair, trying to seem at ease. If nothing else, this man would be an ally of Eragon's.

'You speak powerful phrases,' the man finally observed, as he fidgeted with a pipe. 'You don't mind?'

Murtagh shook his head, inhaling the smoke floating through the room and whispering memories to him. His eyes smarted (as they had always done from the tobacco smoke) and he blinked vigorously. Dormnad was pensive a moment.

'And you speak for the – Rider.'

'Yes,' Murtagh agreed. Dormnad raised his eyebrows in a gesture not entirely disbelieving.

'You've invoked the necessary phrases – I can't but believe you.'

'Indeed,' Murtagh said.

'It's still a rather unbelievable story. I can't believe that I must guide you – my family shall remain here, of course. I have a wife, two daughters, two sons.' He smiled fondly. 'Perhaps they can travel to Teirm, take a ship to Surda – well, it appears the tides have started to turn in this war already.'

'Yes.'

Dormnad gave him a speculative look, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

'You're quiet.'

'I am. I don't like wasting time on words where words are unnecessary.'

Dormnad chuckled. 'I must seem an old windbag to you – well, in a house so full of people you have to persevere with your words to be heard above the rabble – Murtagh, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'And you are a companion of the Rider. His only companion, I presume.'

'N – no.'

Murtagh, surely-worded, confident Murtagh hesitated. Dormnad zoomed in at once.

'No? You have more? How many?'

'Just one,' Murtagh grudgingly revealed.

'A girl. A Varden agent – by the name of Fabiola.'

'Fabiola?' He furrowed his brow, leaning forward. 'I haven't heard that name before … a Varden agent?'

'A Warder,' Murtagh confirmed.

Dormnad's face collapsed. His mouth swung open to emit words, shocked, grieved or worried, Murtagh couldn't tell. The little boy burst into the room at that moment, effectively ending the conversation.

'We shall await you on the hilltop you specified,' Murtagh announced, swinging his cloak over his shoulder, remembering as he did the scene in that backwater jail and the feeling of her eyes wide and scared looking through his. Dormnad looked up from the seat where he clutched his youngest son, and Murtagh felt pity well like venom under his skin.

'Be safe,' Dormnad said; advice and blessing. Murtagh let himself out, beneath the watchful gaze of the blonde angel who held no charm for him.

oOo

He could berate himself for a lack of care, but if he was honest with himself that wasn't it. He had done all he could. His head was down – maybe he could have taken the long way through town rather than tramping back through the dodgy epicentre of crime in the town. But he was less likely to draw attention there where the people were as preoccupied as he was.

Besides, you couldn't hide a face except with a hood – which he had. He had never been to Gil'ead – who here could possibly know him?

The buildings cast shadows, long and forbidding, grey and midnight blue and he cut a fairly usual figure, tall and imposing. He heard the laugh – a bray like a donkey and looked up before he could check himself. A man dressed richly was sashaying up the street, clung to by three of the women Murtagh had earlier spurned, all snorting as jokes dripped from the man's over-pursed lips. It was for situations like this that Murtagh was on guard. His legs locked, his heart started pounding like a hummingbird's wings and his head snapped up like a deer caught before a hunter.

The fit of terror only lasted a moment, but it was enough. From what should have been too great a distance, the man glanced up and double-took. His bottom jaw grazed the fabric of his collar as he stared in abject surprise. He took a breath in preparation to shout Murtagh's name, but that was all it took for Murtagh to spin on the heel of his boots and take off at a dead sprint like he was being chased by the hounds of hell. Young and strong he might have been, but he was also toting a small arsenal of weaponry, and it was out of breath that he flung himself onto Tornac in the bruised were-light and viciously kicked the horse to jolt him into a gallop. Fear and danger shouted advice in Murtagh's mind, the only voices his training hadn't allowed him to block out. He looked over his shoulder, lines of sweat forming in every crevice of his skin, his black hair sticking in hanks to his forehead and face.

He showed his horse no mercy. Murtagh would protect himself and all he cared for at any cost, and exhaustion was a better price to pay than death.

oOo

'I saw someone I knew,' he told them, and tried to explain, briefly, what this meant. They didn't need to know the whole story. A sycophant of his fathers, who had passed his admiration to Morzan's son in the hope of continuing boons. Murtagh had put up with their yearly visits on the way to Uru'baen out of Tornac's insistence.

His name was Piltranus Henderswitchson, a mouthful to be sure. He travelled with fingers sticky for gossip and stories, passing them on every dinner as if Murtagh cared who slept with whom or what fights were happening in far distant Empire corners. He only listened because something Piltranus mentioned his mother, in a patronizing, disapproving way. It was more than he heard from anyone else.

And of course, his wife.

A long suffering, crushed rose of a woman, with sad eyes and a tremble in her voice. Limbs like glass rods, a colourless woman. It seemed as though the life had been sucked from her by the vampiric nature of her husband. But sometimes she smiled at Murtagh without fear and he could pretend in his sacred heart of hearts that this was his mother and she would smooth a hand across his forehead when he was sick as though she loved him. She was a dream to him. And that was why he suffered Piltranus, over etiquette or Tornac's threats – for his wife, the Lady Clarimond.

He roused himself to tell the story, and remind Eragon that they would part on the morrow. Fabiola scuffed the earth so as not to look either in the eye and said very little as Saphira took the first watch and they retired for bed. Her behaviour was a complete mystery to him. It was almost as though the closer they came to actually returning to the Varden, the more downcast she became.

When he woke her to take a watch, she opened her eyes so dreamily that he couldn't but wonder what had been playing in her head. It wasn't as bloody as previous nights, he presumed. She roused herself distractedly, pulling the blanket around her.

For once, Murtagh decided to seize the moment and sate his curiosity. He spoke softly aware of Eragon resting nearby.

'You're hesitant to return to the Varden.'

She looked down at him, where he lay, curled in his blankets, his face turned towards her, the embers of the fire casting strange highlights on his high cheekbones. It was a statement, but she caught the challenge and the truth of it – they would part tomorrow, never to meet again.

'Yes. I am.' She sneaked another glance at him. 'I've been away a long time.'

'But – it's your home.'

She smiled wanly, flipping strands of long, straight hair off her face in an unconsciously graceful motion. An awkward chuckle bubbled over her lips.

'Yes … a home that – in a way – exiled me.' She continued pulling her hair off her face, distractedly.

'You don't send a child out of your ranks unless you're trying to get rid of her – especially not a child like me. I was in the way. '

'You have family there, do you not?'

She smiled, nodding her head.

'Yes … two brothers. I – I'm looking forward to seeing them.'

There was silence for a moment.

'You're a fairly mysterious fellow, Murtagh,' Fabiola announced, seemingly out of the blue. He twitched uncomfortably in his covers, but other than that didn't try to escape the inquisition. She fixed her dark eyes – like rich honey, he thought … it reminded him of the stuff he had gorged on as a child – onto his, and he could almost read her thoughts.

'I have cause to be secretive.'

'Don't we all? Everyone is a judge; everyone thinks they know something about people … But as for you – hmm, I guess … wanted criminal?'

The swerve in thoughts was sharper than he was expecting, something he probably should have been anticipating. She didn't look fazed; her mind didn't seem to follow the constraints his did. She merely seemed … curious.

'Wanted man. But not a criminal,' he hastened to amend. She stared penetratingly at him, and he had the oddest feeling. He was usually the immovable force; the hunter. She should be the prey – but she wasn't. He was, and she not the hunter – something more powerful, and yet benign.

She nodded, appeased. Never so relaxed, before.

'I'd ask you what you're wanted for, but …' She trailed off, and they both laughed awkwardly. The quiet noise of their mirth faded gently with a whispering of a breeze.

'Do you want to go back to the Varden?' he asked her in a low voice. It was a question he had pondering with regard to her for a long time. She took her time thinking, running her hands over the rough earth beside her, her mind miles away.

'I don't know,' she said, carefully, at last, before a smile, mirthless and grim curved her lips.

'If you were me … would you?'

oOo

They were attacked before the sun rose. Eragon shook her gently to rouse her, but unused as she was to such a method of waking, she started with a small cry. He silenced her with a finger to his lips, and she followed his lead, her heart thumping in the roof of her mouth.

There are no words in a language of lies and excuses to adequately describe the fear of a young girl who knows this will be the first battle she will face, and who also knows that whatever may happen in this combat, if throw herself before danger she must, she will. Words for that sung in her blood, stirred with every shallow breath she took. There was a fluttering in her limbs, a gasp in her breath, something woolly and expanding in her stomach. Her skin tingled, her pupils dilated, and a fear of death clutched her heart. She pulled her strung bow out, with hands that were sweaty under her gloves, and felt the fight flash around her, as Eragon cried out the words, 'It's a trap!'

She loosed one arrow towards an Urgal, and it was sheer chance and good luck that it made contact. A roar of pain shattered her trance of panic and suddenly she was all that she was – seventeen, untrained and scared out of her wits.

She dodged behind Murtagh's right shoulder as he was closest to her, and reached a trembling hand back into her quiver, pulling with anguished fingers a new arrow. She fired quickly, accurately, hit one Urgal and didn't celebrate. She had shot with such bad posture and lack of care that she had completely fumbled the bow and it twanged painfully out of her hands, launching itself a little way away. Murtagh was cutting through foes before her, she was on her knees crawling towards her bow to avoid the fray when she heard Eragon scream for his dragon to fly, and wheeled around, snatching the bow and leaping up with the grace of the Elder race, sprinting for the boy a way away; no plan, just desperation.

_Eragon! _The name leapt in frantically from her mind, her heart doing triple time.

'No!' she heard Murtagh roar, as an Urgal jumped from where no Urgal had been a moment before. She stumbled for a moment, unsure what to do. Her heart thundered like the hooves of a horse in pursuit and it forced her to duck when the club swung at her. She dodged neatly, but didn't expect the simple back-hander across her face, which sent her into the air and sprawling stupidly in the dust. She wasn't noticing much when Murtagh sprang and killed the Urgal. Things weren't making sense, even when he pulled her forcefully onto his horse moments later, with a feat of strength she couldn't understand, and as he clutched her arms vicelike around his waist, as he leaned them forward into the horses mane to keep them stable. She just sat dazedly and in a small, magically alive part of her mind linked to Eragon's wellbeing, she felt him fade from her further away. The thundering hooves were loud enough to drown out the small sob that came from nowhere she could control, and Murtagh's back was broad enough to hide the two tears she couldn't manage – the searing pain of part-failing an oath.

xXx


End file.
